UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


THE 


POEMS 


OF 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL 


(COMPLETE  EDITION) 


CHICAGO: 

M.  A.  DONOHUE  &  CO. 

407-429  DEARBORN  ST. 


LIFE  OF  THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL,  the  poet,  was  born  in  his  father's 
house,  High  Street,  Glasgow,  on  the  27th  July,  1777. 
He  was  the  eighth  son,  the  eleventh  and  last  child  of 
Alexander  and  Margaret  Campbell,  both  of  the  same  clan 
and  name,  although  not  of  the  same  kin. 

The  poet's  father  had  been  educated  for  a  commercial 
life,  and  after  spending  some  years  in  Falmouth,  Vir- 
ginia, had  established  himself  as  a  merchant  in  Glasgow, 
where  he  was  very  prosperous  at  the  time  of  his  marriage 
in  1756.  In  1775,  however,  nearly  all  the  fruits  of  a 
life-long  industry  perished  in  the  commercial  crisis  which 
followed  the  outbreak  of  war  between  Great  Britain  and 
her  American  colonies;  and  old  Campbell,  being  then 
sixty-five  years  of  age,  instead  of  tempting  fortune  again, 
preferred  to  husband  the  moderate  means  which  he  was 
able  to  save  from  the  general  wreck;  so  that,  when  the 
poet  was  born  to  him,  he  was  living  as  a  retired,  and;  in 
means,  a  broken-down  merchant.  This  family  reverse, 
and  the  spectacle  of  his  father  surviving  it  for  six  and 
twenty  years,  with  dignity  and  cheerfulness,  must  have 
had  a  powerful  effect  upon  the  poet's  youthful  mind, 
and  doubtless  contributed  not  a  little  to  the  develop- 
ment of  that  sympathy  with  misfortune,  and  that  defiant 
Lope  when  things  are  at  the  worst,  which  are  the  chief 
moral  characteristics  of  his  poetry,  and  made  him  the  true 
expression  of  an  age  whose  calamities  and  aspirations 
•were  alike  gigantic. 

The  poet's  father,  notwithstanding  his  reverse,  re- 
mained on  terms  of  intimacy  with  Adam  Smith,  and  was 
the  confidential  friend  of  his  successor,  Dr.  Thomas 


iv  LIFE  OF  THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 

Reid,  after  whom,  indeed,  the  poet  was  named.  When 
that  philosopher  published  his  "Inquiry  into  the  Human 
Mind,"  he  gave  a  copy  to  Mr.  Campbell;  and  when  the 
latter  expressed  the  pleasure  and  edification  he  had 
derived  from  its  perusal,  Dr.  Reid  is  said  to  have  replied : 
i"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  are  pleased  with  it.  There  are 
now  at  least  two  men  who  understand  my  work,  and 
these  are  Alexander  Campbell  and  myself. "  He  who  re- 
ceived such  a  compliment  from  Dr.  Reid  must  have  been 
a  man  of  superior  parts :  yet  he  is  styled  ' '  a  good  easy 
man,"  in  distinction  from  his  wife,  who  is  designated 
"an  admirable  manager,  and  clever  woman.'' 

An  anecdote  told  at  large  by  Dr.  Beattie,  Campbell's 
biographer,  illustrates  the  difference  between  the  parents, 
and  represents  the  future  poet  in  a  truly  boyish  predica- 
ment. Either  Thomas  or  his  brother  Daniel  was  sent 
every  morning  a  distance  of  about  two  miles,  to  inquire 
for  a  cousin  of  their  mother's,  a  bedridden  old  lady,  and 
the  performance  of  this  commission  sometimes  interfered 
with  an  intended  blackberry-gathering,  or  other  similar 
play.  At  length  Thomas  learned  from  Daniel  the  peril- 
ous art  of  deception,  and,  having  gathered  his  black- 
berries, was  in  the  habit  of  returning  with  a  fictitious 
message  to  this  effect,  "Mrs.  Simpson's  kind  compliments 
to  mamma ;  has  had  a  better  night,  and  is  going  on  very 
nicely."  In  the  course  of  time,  however,  the  boys  were 
caught  in  their  own  trap,  for,  after  a  long  succession  of 
these  satisfactory  bulletins,  there  came  suddenly  an 
announcement  of  the  old  lady's  death.  All  were  speech- 
less at  first — the  culprits  from  the  sense  of  suddenly 
discovered  guilt,  and  the  parents  from  grief  and  astonish- 
ment. "At  last,"  says  the  poet,  in  recounting  the 
circumstance,  "  my  mother's  grief  for  her  respected  cousin 
vented  itself  in  cuffing  our  ears.  But  I  was  far  less 
pained  by  her  blows,  than  by  a  few  words  from  my 
father.  He  never  raised  a  hand  to  us;  and  I  would 


LIFE  OF  THOMAS  CAMPBELL.  r 

advise  all  fathers,  who  would  have  their  children  love 
their  memory,  to  follow  his  example."  Campbell  was, 
however,  indebted  to  his  mother  for  his  introduction  to 
music  and  song.  "My  Poor  Dog  Tray"  was  one  of  her 
favourites,  and  from  Campbell's  afterwards  writing  "The 
Harper"  to  the  tune  of  this  song,  it  appears  that  his 
infant  memories,  responsive  to  the  echo  of  his  mother's 
voice,  survived  all  cuffings  which  his  boyish  misde- 
meanours no  doubt  richly  deserved. 

After  distinguishing  himself  at  the  grammar  school  of 
Glasgow  by  a  precocious  talent  for  versification,  which  he 
employed  even  then  most  happily  in  metrical  translations 
from  the  classic  poets,  Campbell  entered  the  university 
of  that  city  at  the  age  of  fourteen.  Here  lie  passed 
through  the  usual  curriculum  of  four  years,  mingling  his 
studies — as  Scotch  students  generally  do,  with  grout  dis- 
advantage to  their  scholarship,  though  not  to  their 
development  as  men — with  miscellaneous  reading,  news- 
papers not  certainly  excepted,  attendance  on  debating 
societies,  flute  playing,  and  social  meetings,  and  eking 
out  his  subsistence  by  private  tuition.  Whenever  a  prize 
was  offered  for  a  metrical  translation  or  an  original 
poem,  Campbell  was  sure  to  carry  it  off;  and  he  seems 
to  have  paid  considerable  attention  to  the  languages, 
particularly  Greek;  but  he  made  a  poor  figure  in 
mathematics.  Poetry  was  his  element,  whatever  was  or 
should  have  been  his  work;  and  accordingly,  we  find  him 
writing  verses  even  in  the  mathematical  class-room.  A 
too-confident  youth  having  one  day  retreated  from  before 
the  Pons  Asinorum  with  a  confusion  of  face,  which 
excited  only  the  risibility  of  his  fellows,  Campbell  penned 
on  the  spot  a  few  mock  heroics  on  Miller's  Hussars,  as  he 
called  the  students  of  that  professor,  charging  this 
redoubtable  tite  de  pont.  The  dashing  spirit,  which 
gallops  triumphantly  in  Campbell's  great  national  lyrics, 
maybe  clearly  discerned  in  the  opening  stanzas. 


vi  LIFE  OF  THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 

Of  all  which  happened  during  Campbell's  university 
career  that  which  produced  the  most  lasting  impression 
upon  his  mind  was  his  presence  at  the  trial  of  the  Scot- 
tish Reformer,  Gerald,  in  Edinburgh,  1794.  How  he 
obtained  this  gratification  is  so  well  told  by  himself,  and 
the  narrative  presents  so  pure  and  beautiful  a  picture  of 
middle-class  life  in  Scotland,  half  a  century  ago,  that  it 
deserves  to  be  given  in  his  own  words: — "I  watched 
my  mother's  moUia  tempora  fandi,* — for  she  had  them, 
good  woman; — and,  eagerly  catching  the  propitious 
moment,  I  said,  '  Oh !  mamma,  how  I  long  to  see  Edin- 
burgh !  If  I  had  but  three  shillings  I  could  walk  there 
in  one  day,  sleep  two  nights,  and  be  two  days  at  my 
Aunt  Campbell's,  and  walk  back  in  another  day.'  To  my 
delightful  surprise  she  answered :  '  No,  my  bairn :  I  will 
give  you  what  will  carry  you  to  Edinburgh,  and  bring 
you  back ;  but  you  must  promise  me  not  to  walk  more 
than  half  the  way  in  any  one  day,' — that  was  twenty-two 
miles. — '  Here,'  said  she,  '  are  five  shillings  for  you  in  all ; 
two  shillings  will  serve  you  to  go,  and  two  to  return ;  for 
a  bed  at  the  half -way-house  costs  but  sixpence.'  She 
then  gave  me, — I  shall  never  forget  the  beautiful  coin! — • 
a  King  William  and  Mary  crown  piece.  I  was  dumb 
with  gratitude ;  but  sallying  out  to  the  streets,  I  saw,  at 
the  first  bookseller's  shop,  a  print  of  Elijah  fed  by  the 
Ravens.  Now,  I  had  often  heard  my  poor  mother  saying 
confidentially  to  our  worthy  neighbour  Mrs.  Hamilton, — 
whose  strawberries  I  had  pilfered, — that,  in  case  of  my 
father's  death, — and  he  was  a  very  old  man, — she  knew 
not  what  would  become  of  .her.'  'But,'  she  used  to  add, 
' let  me  not  despair,  for  Elijah  was  fed  by  the  ravens.' 
When  I  presented  her  with  the  picture,  I  said  nothing  of 
its  tacit  allusion  to  the  possibility  of  my  being  one  day 
her  supporter;  but  she  was  much  affected,  and  evidently 
felt  a  strong  presentiment."  Young  Campbell  did  in- 

*  Moments  of  pood  humour. 


LIFE  OF  THOMAS  CAMPBELL.  \4 

deed  afterwards  become  his  mother's  support ;  meanwhile 
he  trudged  off  to  Edinburgh,  with  four  and  sixpence  in 
his  pocket.  % 

The  circumstances  of  Campbell's  father  became  still 
more  straitened,  during  the  poet's  university  career,  by 
the  loss  of  a  suit  in  Chancery;  but,  by  taking  in  students 
as  boarders,  the  family  managed  to  live  on  in  their  own 
station.  The  diminution  of  his  father's  means  made  the 
choice  of  a  profession  more  necessary,  but  also  more  diffi- 
cult than  ever  to  the  poet.  At  the  close  of  his  second 
session,  he  entered  a  lawyer's  office  on  trial,  but  left  it 
after  a  few  weeks,  as  too  uncongenial.  Then  he  thought 
of  entering  the  Church ;  and,  towards  the  close  of  his 
university  career,  he  says  himself  that  he  would  have 
studied  for  the  Bar,  had  he  only  had  a  few  hundred 
pounds  to  subsist  upon  in  the  meantime. 

Twice  during  the  long  summer  recess  of  the  Scotch 
universities,  Campbell  acted  as  tutor  in  the  Highlands, 
first  at  the  solitary  house  of  Suuipol,  on  the  northern 
coast  of  Mull,  and  then  at  Downie  in  Cantyre,  on  the 
Sound  of  Jura.  A  gentle  but  commanding  height  near 
the  latter  place  is  still  called,  from  his  having  almost 
daily  ascended  it,  "The  Poet's  Hill;"  and  the  former  is 
remarkable,  because  there,  first  of  all,  the  title  at  least 
of  his  great  poem,  "The  Pleasures  of  Hope,"  occurs  in 
his  correspondence,  though  not  in  a  letter  of  his  own. 
He  had  found  the  solitude  of  Sunipol  oppressive,  and 
Hamilton  Paul,  one  of  his  fellow-students,  to  whom  he 
had  unbosomed  himself  by  letter,  sent  him  a  few  stanzas 
entitled  "The  Pleasures  of  Solitude,"  by  way  of  con- 
solation, and  added  banteringly,  "We  have  now  three 
'  Pleasures,'  by  first-rate  men  of  genius,  viz.,  '  The 
Pleasures  of  Imagination, '  '  The  Pleasures  of  Memory, ' 
and  'The  Pleasures  of  Solitude!'  Let  us  cherish  'The 
Pleasures  of  Hope,'  that  WQ  may  soon  meet  in  Alma 
Mater!"  "The  Pleasures  of  Hope"  were  really  com- 


OF  THOMAS  CAMPBELL,. 

menced  not  long  afterwards.  During  these  retreats  ho 
translated  largely  and  carefully  from  the  Greek  drama- 
tists into  English  verse,  and  threw  off  a  number  of  ama- 
tory pieces;  for,  like  all  poets,  or  rather  like  all  men, 
he  had  his  youthful  attachments,  to  one  of  which  he 
refers  in  the  "Lines  written  on  visiting  a  Scene  in  Ar- 
gyllshire," where  he  sings  somewhat  defiantly, 

"  Yea!  even  the  name  I  have  worshipp'cl  in  vain 
Shall  awake  not  the  sigh  of  remembrance  again. 

Above  all,  his  fancy  was  stored  with  the  wild  scenery  of 
the  Highlands,  which  he  has  so  grandly  sketched  in  his 
latest  peom,  "  The  Pilgrim  of  Glencoe." 

In  May,  1797,  he  went  to  Edinburgh  to  work  his  way, 
as  best  he  might,  by  means  of  the  pandects  and  poetry. 
He  accepted  the  drudgery  of  a  copying  clerk,  and  en- 
dured it  for  two  months,  Avhen  he  was  accidentally 
introduced  to  Dr.  Anderson,  author  of  "Lives  of  the 
British  Poets."  This  gentleman,  on  seeing  an  Elegy 
written  during  his  melancholy  in  Mull,  predicted  Camp- 
bell's success  as  a  poet,  and  immediately  became  his 
patron,  introducing  him  to  Mundell  the  publisher,  who 
offered  him  £20  for  an  abridged  edition  of  Bryan 
Edwards'  "West  Indies."  With  this  engagement  he- 
returned  to  Glasgow.  Here  Miss  Stirling  of  Courdale 
induced  him  to  compose  various  lyrics  to  favourite  airs, 
one  of  which,  "The  Wounded  Hussar,"  became  univer- 
sally popular,  and  was  sung  even  in  the  streets  of  Glas  • 
gow,  though  this  last  circumstance  seems  to  have  been 
more  annoying  than  gratifying  to  Campbell  himself. 
On  completing  his  abridgment,  he  returned  to  Edin- 
burgh, and  was  engaged  in  other  hackwork  for  t he- 
booksellers,  when  an  invitation  from  certain  of  his 
brothers  to  join  them  in  Virginia  took  him  back  to  Glas- 
gow. This  invitation,  however,  was  withdrawn  before 
it  could  be  acted  on,  and  so  he  returned  to  Edinburgh. 


LIFE  OF  THOMAS  CAMPBELL.  ix 

where  private  tuition  became  his  chief  dependence  for 
support.  "Gertrude  of  "Wyoming"  is  a  monument  of 
the  affectionate  interest  with  which  he  at  one  time  re- 
garded America  as  his  probable  home. 

Campbell  now  worked  hard  at  "  The  Pleasures  of 
Hope  "  in  a  dusky  lodging  in  Rose  Street,  lauding  that 
noble  and  most  necessary  passion  all  the  more  fervently, 
because  despondency  sometimes  quenched  it  in  himself. 
Somerville,  the  landscape-painter,  then  a  young  man 
like  Campbell,  and  whose  lodging  adjoined  -tlio  poet's, 
has  borne  explicit  testimony  to  Campbell's  dark  hours, 
even  when  "The  Pleasures  of  Hope"  were  passing 
through  the  press.  One  of  his  gloomy  outbursts  is  a.s 
follows:  "Supposing  they  should  all  find  out  one  day.  as 
I  did  this  morning,  that  the  thing  is  neither  more  nor 
less  than  tra&h,  would  not  the  author's  predicament  be 
tenfold  worse  than  if  he  had  never  written  a  line? — I 
assure  you  that  to-day  I  coula  not  endure  to  look  at  my 
own  work.  'Twas  an  absolute  punishment,  and  there 
are  days,  Somerville,  when  I  can't  abide  to  walk  in  the 
sunshine,  and  when  I  would  almost  rather  be  .shot,  than 
come  within  the  sight  of  any  man,  or  be  spoken  to  by  any 
mortal!  This  has  been  one  of  these  days.  How  heartily 
I  wished  for  night!" 

On  the  27th  April,  1799,  just  three  years  after  the  death 
of  Burns,  the  publication  of  the  "New  Poem1'  was 
announced,  and  its  success  was  immediate  and  complete. 
In  his  own  reminiscences  Campbell  says,  "The  Pleasures 
of  Hope"  appeared  exactly  when  I  was  21  year;  and  9 
months  old.  It  gave  me  a  general  acquaintance  in  Edin- 
burgh. Dr.  Gregory,  Henry  Mackenzie,  the  author  of 
the  '  Man  of  Feeling, '  Dugald  Stewart,  the  Rev.  Archi- 
bald Alison,  the  'Man  of  Taste, 'and  Thomas  Telford  the 
engineer,  became  my  immediate  patrons."  The  mature 
strength  and  beauty  of  Campbell's  chief  poem,  as  the 
prorViction  of  a  youth,  will  ever  be  remarkable;  but  it 


x  LIFE  OF  THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 

needs  not  that  consideration  to  enhance  its  merits.  The 
Trench  Revolution,  the  partition  of  Poland,  and  the 
abolition  of  negro  slavery,  were  then  the  reigning  topics 
of  the  day,  and  the  enthusiasm  with  which  the  poem  was 
received,  arose  no  doubt  in  part  from  the  noble  expres- 
sion which  it  gave  to  public  feeling  .on  these  matters. 
But  the  true  humanity  of  the  sentiments  pervading  it  was 
then,  and  ever  will  be,  its'most  potent  charm.  As  long 
as  men  remain  imperfect,  and  heavy-laden,  yet  struggling 
and  hopeful  creatures,  their  hearts  will  be  won  by  a 
poem,  which  is  distinguished  by  the  frank  acknowledg- 
ment of  human  ills,  and  the  bold  utterance  of  eternal 
Hope.  The  short  lyric  "Gilderoy"  was  composed  dur- 
ing the  autumn  of  the  same  year. 

The  copyright  of  the  "Pleasures  of  Hope  "had  been 
sold  for  £GO,  and  the  author  was  presented  with  another 
£50  in  consideration  of  a  second  edition  of  2,000  copies. 
With  these  moderate  means,  Campbell  gratified  a  desire, 
which  he  had  long  entertained,  of  visiting  the  Continent, 
and,  in  June,  1800,  he  set  sail  from  Leith  for  Hamburgh. 
His  fame  had  preceded  him,  and  he  received  a  poet's 
welcome  from  the  English  residents  in  Hamburgh.  His 
movements  were  hampered,  however,  by  the  disturbed 
state  of  Germany;  and,  until  he  fixed  himself  in  Altona 
for  the  winter,  his  head-quarters  were  at  Rt?tisbon,  in 
Bavaria,  where  was  a  Scotch  monastery  for  the  education 
of  young  Scotsmen  as  priests,  for  their  native  country. 
Here  he  was  witness  of  a  battle  which  gave  the  French 
possession  of  Ratisbon,  and  the  deep  impression  which 
the  terrible  scene  made  upon  his  mind  explains  the  awful 
solemnity  of  his  "Hohenlinden."  He  himself  says  of  it, 
"  This  formed  the  most  important  epoch  of  my  life,  in 
point  of  impressions.  ...  At  times,  when  I  have  been 
fevered  and  ill,  I  have  awaked  from  nightmare  dreams 
about  these  dreadful  images." 

The  following  pieces  were  either  composed  at  Ratisbon 


LIFE  OF  THOMAS  CAMPBELL.  xi 

and  Altona,  or  at  least  sent  thence  to  England  for  pub- 
lication. The  "Exile  of  Erin,"  which  was  suggested  by 
meeting  Anthony  M'Cann,  one  of  the  Irish  exiles  of  1798, 
walking  lonely  and  pensive  one  evening  on  the  banks  of 
the  Elbe.  "The  Beech-Tree's  Petition,"  which  refers  to 
a  noble  beech-tree  in  the  garden  of  Ardwell,  that  was  to 
have  been  cut  down  at  the  gardener's  request.  Certain 
ladies  who  greatly  admired  the  tree,  applied  to  Camp- 
bell's sister,  Mary,  with  whom  they  were  acquainted,  and 
at  her  request,  Campbell  wrote  the  "Petition,"  which 
would,  no  doubt,  have  had  the  merit  of  saving  the  tree, 
had  not  the  intercession  of  the  ladies  themselves  already 
prevailed.  The  "  Ode  to  Winter,"  the  concluding  lines 
of  which  allude  to  the  scenes  of  bloodshed  then  going 
on,  and  one  of  which  he  had  witnessed  at  Ratisbon. 
"Ye  Mariners  of  England,"  the  subject  of  which  was 
first  suggested  by  hearing  the  air  played  in  Edinburgh. 
Campbell  entitled  it,  "Alteration  of  the  old  Ballad  of 
'Ye  Gentlemen  of  England,' composed  on  the -prospect 
of  a  Russian  war,"  and  the  fortification  at  that  time  of 
every  assailable  point  along  the  straits  of  Dover  with 
Martello  towers,  is  alluded  to  in  the  line, 
"  No  towers  along  the  steep." 

"Lines  on  the  Grave  of  a  Suicide,"  which  were  written 
on  seeing  the  unclaimed  corpse  exposed  on  the  banks  of 
a  river. 

In  March,  1801,  when  hostilities  broke  out  between 
Britain  and  Denmark,  Altona  was  no  longer  a  safe  res- 
idence for  Campbell.  He,  like  many  others,  took 
timely  warning,  and  embarked  for  Leith  before  the 
British  squadron  sailed  for  the  Sound.  The  vessel, 
however,  was  chased  by  a  Danish  privateer,  and  forced 
to  take  refuge  in  Yarmouth,  where  Campbell  took  the 
mail  for  London.  Here  the  news  of  his  father's  death 
reached  him,  and  he  hastened  to  Edinburgh  to  console 
his  widowed  mother.  He  found  her  seriously  alarmed 


xit  LIFE  OF  THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 

by  rumours  of  high  treason  that  were  current  against 
him,  and  he  immediately  repaired  to  the  Sheriff  for  the 
purpose  of  clearing  himself,  in  which  he  succeeded 
without  much  difficulty.  A  box,  full  of  Campbell's 
papers  which  he  had  ordered  to  be  forwarded  from  Yar- 
mouth to  Edinburgh,  was  seized  at  Leith,  on  the  suppo- 
sition of  its  containing  proofs  of  his  treason.  Its  con- 
tents were  examined  by  Campbell  and  the  Sheriff  over 
a  bottle  of  wine ;  and  among  them  was  found  a  copy  of 
"Ye  Mariners  of  England!" 

From  this  time  forth  Campbell  was  truly  Elijah's 
raven  to  his  mother  and  sisters.  His  earnings  were  the 
reward  of  literary  task-work,  so  that  they  were  neither 
large  nor  easily  won ;  but  such  as  they  were,  he  shared 
them  with  his  family.  His  circle  of  friends  was  now  as 
wide  as  he  chose  to  make  it.  Roscoe  and  Dr.  Currie  in- 
duced him  to  visit  Liverpool  twice  in  these  years",  and 
whenever  he  went  to  London,  he  was  noticed  with  dis- 
tinction, both  by  literati  and  men  of  rank.  There,  in 
1802,  lie  completed  "  Hohenlinden "  and  "Lochicl's 
Warning."  The  history  of  the  oft-quoted  line  in  the 

latter, 

"And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before,"' 

is  exceedingly  interesting.  In  the  summer  of  1801, 
having  already  composed  part  of  "  Lochiel's  Warning," 
he  one  evening  went  early  to  bed  at  Minto,  and,  medi- 
tating on  the  subject,  fell  sound  asleep.  During  the 
night  he  suddenly  awoke,  repeating  "Events  to  ojine 
cast  their  shadows  before ;"  and,  recognising  this  as  the 
very  thought  for  which-  he  had  been  hunting  a  whole 
week,  rang  the  bell  till  a  servant  came,  from  whom 
he  requested  a  candle  and  a  cup  of  tea.  Over  this  cup 
of  tea,  at  two  A.M.,  at  Minto,  he  completed  the  iirst 
sketch  of  ''Lochiel's  Warning,"  changing  the  words 
"Events  to  come  "  into  "And  coming  events,"  as  they 
now  stand. 


LIFE  OF  THOMAS  CAMPBELL.  ::iii 

Notwithstanding  his  attachment  to  Edinburgh.  Camp- 
bell waa  gradually  gravitating  towards  the  great  centre 
of  London;  and  all  the  more  so,  as  an  attachment  sprang 
up  between  him  and  a  cousin  of  his  own,  Matilda  Sin- 
clair, whose  father  had  been  a  wealthy  merchant  in 
Greenock,  and  Provost  of  that  town;  but,  through  com- 
mercial reverses,  had  been  led  to  transfer  his  counting- 
house  to  Trinity  Square,  in  the  city  of  London.  She 
was  "a  beautiful,  lively,  and  lady-like  woman;''  and 
the  father's  only  objection  to  the  poet's  suit  was  the  in- 
adequacy, and,  above  all,  the  uncertainty  of  his  means. 
At  length,  however,  he  yielded,  and  on  the  10th  Septem- 
ber, 1803,  the  marriage  was  celebrated  in  St.  Margaret's 
Church,  Westminster. 

Neither  was  disappointed  in  the  other;  and,  Camp- 
bell's reputation  being  now  fairly  established,  numerous 
oilers  of  handsomely  remunerated  literary  work  promised 
external  security  to  their  conjugal  happiness.  Their  first 
home  was  in  apartments  in  Pimlico;  but,  within  a  year 
after  his  marriage,  Campbell  removed  to  a  cottage  on 
Sydenham  Common,  where  he  passed  seventeen  years — 
the  most  laborious,  and  the  most  harassed,  though,  for 
all  that,  the  happiest  of  his  life. 

In  this  suburban  retreat  were  elaborated,  in  1«04, 
<•  Lord  Ullin's  Daughter,"  "The  Soldier's  Dream,"  and 
''The  Turkish  Lady,"  which  had  all  been  sketched  long- 
before,  among  the  scenes  to  which  they  refer;  the  first  in 
the  Island  of  Mull,  and  the  two  others  at  Ratisbon.  A 
little  later  was  produced  "The  Battle  of  the  Baltic,'"  to 
which  his  attention  had  been  particularly  called  by  its 
following  so  closely  upon  his  own  departure  from  Altona. 

In  1805,  his  Majesty,  under  Fox's  administration,  be- 
stowed an  annual  pension  of  £200  upon  Campbell,  which, 
however,  diminished  by  office-fees,  duties,  etc.,  never 
amounted  to  more  than  £168,  the  greater  part  of  which 
he  generously  divided  between  his  mother  and  sisters. 


xiv  LIFE  OF  THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 

In  1807,  Campbell  published  "  Annals  of  Great  Britain, 
from  the  Accession  of  George  III.  to  the  Peace  of  Amiens, " 
and  in  1809,  "Gertrude  of  Wyoming."  It  not  only  sup- 
ported his  reputation  in  Britain,  but  procured  for  him  a 
whole  nation  of  enthusiastic  admirers  in  America.  Some 
years  afterwards,  Campbell  met  with  a  son  of  ;'the 
monster  Brandt"  in  England,  and  became  so  well  con- 
vinced that  the  Mohawk  chief,  so  named,  instead  of 
being  a  "monster,"  was  one  of  nature's  noblemen,  that 
he  publicly  retracted  the  infamous  epithet,  and,  in  allow- 
ing the  name  to  remain  for  the  sake  of  the  rhyme,  declared 
the  character  to  be  a  pure  fiction.  Towards  the  close  of  this 
same  year,  he  finished  the  exquisite  story  of  "O'Connor's 
Child,"  which  was  suggested  by  seeing,  in  his  own  garden 
at  Sydenharn,  the  flower  called  "Love-lies-bleeding." 

In  1812,  Campbell  appeared  for  the  first  time  before 
the  Royal  Institution  in  London  as  a  lecturer  on  poetry, 
adding  thereby  to  both  his  reputation  and  his  means.  In 
1815,  on  the  death  of  his  Highland  cousin,  MacArthur 
Stewart  of  Ascog,  he  inherited  a  legacy  of  nearly  £5000, 
which,  together  with  his  pension,  might  have  formed  an 
ample  foundation  for  that  independence  and  leisure  which 
he  coveted  so  much,  had  he  been  either  as  close-fisted  as 
Scotsmen  are  generally  reputed  to  be,  or  gifted  with 
ordinary  prudence  in  pecuniary  matters.  What  he  had 
he  spent  generously,  and  never  thought  of  providing  for 
an  exigency  till  it  actually  arrived. 

Already,  in  1814,  Campbell  had  sought  change  of  scene 
in  Paris,  where  he  spent  two  months,  being  attracted  to 
that  city  in  particular,  by  the  desire  of  surveying  the 
theatre  of  so  many  great  cotemporaneous  events.  In 
1820,  he  undertook  a  more  extensile  tour  on  the  Con- 
tinent, accompanied  by  his  wife.  He  ascended  the  Rhine, 
and  went  as  far  as  Vienna,  dwelling  with  peculiar  satis- 
faction on  the  scenes  which  had  been  endeared  to  him  by 
his  residence  at  Ratisbon,  twenty  years  before. 


LIFE  OF  THOMAS  CAMPBELL.  xv 

On  returning  to  London,  he  entered  on  the  editorship 
of  the  New  Monthly  Magazine,  with  a  salary  of  £600  a-year. 
He  held  it  for  ten  years,  giving  it  up  in  1830,  because, 
according  to  himself,  "it  was  utterly  impossible  to  con- 
tinue editor  without  interminable  scrapes,  together  with 
a  lawsuit  now  and  then !"  To  the  period  of  this  editor- 
ship belong  the  highest  honours  and  severest  afflictions 
of  Campbell's  life.  In  1821,  his  son  Thomas,  the  first- 
born of  his  children,  and  the  only  one  who  survived 
childhood,  fell  a  victim  to  a  mild  and  intermittent  form 
of  mental  derangement,  which  necessitated  his  transfer- 
ence to  an  asylum,  and  defied  all  human  skill;  and  in 
1828  death  took  away  from  him  his  wife. 

How  solemn  to  him  was  the  bereavement  may  be 
iudged  from  these  lines,  written  to  a  friend  within  a  week 
after: — "I  am  alone,  and  I  feel  that  I  shall  need  to  be 
some  time  alone — prostrated  in  heart  before  that  Great 
Being,  who  can  alone  forgive  my  errors ;  and  in  address- 
ing whom  alone  I  can  frame  resolutions  in  my  heart,  to 
make  my  remaining  life  as  pure  as  nature's  infirmities 
may  permit  a  soul  to  be,  that  believes  in  His  existence, 
and  goodness,  and  mercy."  These  were  his  severest 
afflictions ;  and  what  he  reckoned  the  crowning  honour 
of  his  life,  was  his  election  as  Lord  Rector  of  Glasgow 
University,  in  1826,  and  the  two  following  years.  It  was, 
indeed,  a  proud  position  for  one  to  occupy,  who,  little 
more  than  thirty  years  before,  had  left  its  halls  with  the 
reputation,  indeed,  of  a  College  poet,  but  unable  to  ob- 
tain any  more  congenial  or  better  remunerated  employ- 
ment than  that  of  a  Highland  tutorship,  and  who  had 
been  indebted  for  his  rise  only  to  native  genius  and  un- 
tiring industry.  To  these  years,  also,  belong  Campbell's 
greatest  activity  as  a  public-spirited  citizen.  He  took 
the  liveliest  interest  in  the  establishment  of  London 
University;  and  in  1825  went  to  Berlin  expressly  to  ex- 
amine the  University  buildings  and  system  there,  if  haply 


xvi  LIFE  OF  THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 

he  might  bring  back  some  useful  suggestions.  His  gen- 
erous sympathy  with  the  Poles,  too,  must  not  be  passed 
over.  In  his  great  poem,  at  a  time  when  lie  hardly  hoped 
for  himself,  much  less  that  he  should  one  day  be  able  to 
succour  the  exiles,  it  had  burst  out  in  the  memorable  line, 

"And  Freedom  shriek'd—  as  Kosciusko  fell:" 

and  now  he  devoted  his  eloquence,  his  interest,  and  his 
money  to  the  relief  of  the  Polish  patriots  who  were 
stranded  on  the  British  shore.  Greece  also  found  him  au 
enthusiastic  Philhellen. 

It  was  not  easy  for  Campbell  to  make  up,  by  rnisrd- 
laneous  literary  labour,  for  the  loss  of  the  annual  .i'UOO 
attached  to  the  editorship  of  the  New  Monthly.  In  1831, 
he  became  editor  of  the  Metropolitan  Magazine,  but  soon 
relinquished  it.  Later  still,  he  published  "Letters  from 
the  South,"  recounting  his  travels  in  France  and  Algeria, 
in  the  winter  of  1834-5.  But  amidst  all  this  labour  his 
health  declined;  and  as  his  health  declined  so  his  longing 
augmented  for  a  quiet  independence.  In  1841  he  went 
to  Wiesbaden,  for  the  sake  of  the  waters;  and  in  1842, 
he  made  a  hurried  trip  to  Dinan,  to  see  if  living  were 
really  as  cheap  there  as  report  represented.  At  length, 
however,  in  1843,  he  settled  in  Boulogne,  with  a  niece 
whom  he  had  brought  up,  and  to  whom  he  bequeathed 
his  all,  for  his  only  companion;  and  there  he  died  on  the 
15th  June  of  the  following  year,  aged  sixty-seven.  His 
remains  were  brought  to  London,  and  on  the  3rd  July 
interred  in  Poet's  Corner,  Westminster  Abbey,  do  -c  !>y 
the  tomb  of  Addison.  The  most  touching  incident  in 
these  last  sad  rites  was  the  throwing  of  some  earth  from 
Kosciusko's  grave  at  Cracow,  by  the  Polish  Colonel 
Szyrma,  upon  Campbell's  bier.  It  was  a  tribute  to  the 
eternal  charm  of  Campbell's  character  and  poetry,  viz., 
that  lie  had  a  heart  to  feel  another's  woe,  and  a  tongue 
to  denounce  another's  wronjr. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE: 

PLEASURES  OF  HOPE.— Part  I., 1 

PLEASURES  OF  HOPE. — Part  II.,   .        .        .        .        .        .        20 

THEODORIC:  a  Domestic  Tale, '•& 

Martial  Elegy:  from  the  Greek  of  Tyrtaeus,        .  .        51 

Song  of  Hybrias  the  Cretan, .     52 

Fragment:  from  the  Greek  of  Alcman,        .        .        .  5:?. 

Specimens  of  Translations  from  Medea,         .        .        .  53 

Speech  of  the  Chorus,  in  the  same  Tragedy,      .        .         .        54 
O'Connor's  Child;  or,  "  The  Flower  of  Love  lies  Bleeding,"    .r>9 

Locbiel's  Warning, (57 

Ye  Mariners  of  England:  a  Naval  Ode,       ....        70 

Battle  of  the  Baltic, 72 

Epigram,  on  three  Young  Ladies,  his  Pupils,     .        .        .        79 
On  sending  Reinforcements  to  the  English  Armies  in  Spain,     79 
The  Cruel  Sempstress;  or,  a  right  piteous  and  heroic  Trag- 
edy, in  the  manner  of  Mister  William  Shakspeare.     A 

Fragment, SO 

The  Battle-Morn:  a  Troubadour  Song  for  Waterloo, .        .        81 

Charade,  1829, 82 

Fragment  from  the  "  Rhenish  Baron."    An  unfinished  Poem,    82 

Lord  Ullin's  Daughter, 84 

Ode  to  the  Memory  of  Burns, 86 

Love  and  Madness:  an  Elegy, 89 

To  the  Rainbow, 92 

The  Last  Man, 93 

A  Dream, 96 

Valedictory  Stanzas  to  J.  P.  Kemble,  Esq.,        ...        98 

GERTRUDE  OP  WYOMING. — Part  I., 102 

GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. — Part  II., 112 

GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING.— Part  III., 120 

Lines  written  at  the  request  of  the  Highland  Society  in  Lon- 
don, when  met  to  commemorate  the  21st  of  March,  the 

Day  of  Victory  in  Egypt, 133 

Stanzas  to  the  Memory  of  the  Spanish  Patriots  latest  killed 

in  Resisting  the  Regency  and  the  Duke  of  AngouK-me,  134 

Song  of  the  Greeks, .      136 

Ode  to  Winter, 138 

Lines  spoken  by  Mrs.  Bartley  at  the  Drury-Lane  Theatre, 
on  the  first  opening  of  the  House  after  the  Death  of  the 

Princess  Charlotte,  1817, 140 

Lines  on  the  Grave  of  a  Suicide, 141 

1,'fiilhira, 142 

The  Turkish  Lady, 148 


xviii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Brave  Roland, 149 

The  Spectre  Boat:  a  Ballad, 151 

The  Lover  to  his  Mistress  on  her  Birth-day,  ....  152 

Song:  "O,  how  Hard," .      153 

Adelgitha, 153 

Lines  on  receiving  a  Seal  with  the  Campbell  Crest,  from  K. 

M ,  before  her  Marriage, 154 

Gilderoy, 156 

Stanzas  on  the  threatened  Invasion,  1803,  ....      157 

The  Ritter  Bann, .  158 

Song:  "  Men  of  England."  . 164 

Song:  "  Drink  ye  to  her/' 165 

The  Harper, 165 

The  Wounded  Hussar, 166 

Lines  written  on  Visiting  a  Scene  in  Argyleshire,      .        .      168 

The  Soldier's  Dream, 169 

Hallowed  Ground, 170 

bong:  "Withdraw  not  yet," 173 

Caroline.— Part  I.. 174 

Caroline.— Part  II.    To  the  Evening  Star,        .      .        .        .176 

The  Beach-tree's  Petition, 178 

Field-flowers,  179 

Song:  "  To  the  Evening  Star," 180 

Stanzas  to  Painting, 180 

The  Maid's  Remonstrance, 182 

Absence, 183 

Lines  inscribed  on  the  Monument  erected  by  the  Widow  of 
Admiral  Sir  G.  Campbell,  K.  C.  B.,  to  the  Memory  of 

her  Husband, 184 

Stanzas  on  the  Battle  of  Navarino,         .        .        .        .        .  185 
Lines  on  Revisiting  a  Scottish  Riv«r,  .  186 

The  "Name  Unknown:"  in  Imitation  of  Klopstock,     .        .  188 

Farewell  to  Love, 189 

Lines  on  the  Camp  Hill,  near  Hastings,         ....  190 

Lines  on  Poland, 191 

A  Thought  suggested  by  the  New  Year,         ....  196 
Song:  "How  Delicious  is  the  Winning,"   ....      197 

Margaret  and  Dora, 198 

The  Power  of  Russia, 198 

Lines  on  Leaving  a  scene  in  Bavaria, 202 

The  Death-boat  of  Heligoland, 206 

Song:  "When  Love  came  first  to  Earth,"      .        .        .        .208 
Song:  "  Earl  March  looked  on  his  Dying  Child,"      .        .      209 

Song:  "When  Napoleon  was  flying," 209 

Lines  to  Julia  M ,  sent  with  a  copy  of  the  Author's  Poems,  210 

Drinking-song  of  Munich, 211 

Lines  on  the  Departure  of  Emigrants  for  New  South  Wales,  211 

Lines  on  Revisiting  Cathcart, 215 

The  Cherubs:  suggested  by  an  Apologue  in  the  Works  of 
Franklin,          ...        ...        .        .        .216 

Senex's  Soliloquy  on  his  Youthful  Idol,         ....  219 

To  Sir  Francis  Burdett,  on  his  Speech  delivered  in  Parlia- 
ment, August  7, 1832,  respecting  the  Foreign  Policy  of 
Great  Britain, 219 


CONTENTS.  xix 

PAGK 

Ode  to  the  Germans, 221 

Lines  on  a  Picture  of  a  Girl  in  the  attitude  of  Prayer,  by  the 
Artist  Gruse,  in  the  possession  of  Lady  Stepney,    .        .  222 

Spanish  Patriots'  Song, .      22± 

To  a  Lady,  on  being  presented  with  a  Sprig  of  Alexandrian 

Laurel, 225 

To  the  Polish  Countess  R ski, 22(i 

Francis  Horner, 227 

To  Florine, 227 

To  an  Infant, 22S 

To , ' 22S 

Forlorn  Ditty  on  Red-Riding-Hood, 229 

Joseph  Marry  at,  M.  P., 230 

Song:  "  My  Mind  is  my  Kingdom," 230 

Stanzas, 231 

On  accidentally  possessing  and  returning  Miss  B 's  Pic- 
ture,      2?.l 

Song:  "  I  gave  my  Love  a  Chain  of  Gold,"  .  .  .  .  2:>:J 
To  Mary  feinclair,  with  a  volume  of  his  Poems,  .  .  .  282 

The  Pilgrim  of  Glencoe, 234 

Napoleon  and  the  British  Sailor, 24'J 

Benlomond, 2;"il 

The  Child  and  Hind, 252- 

The  Jilted  Nymph, 257 

On  getting  Home  the  Portrait  of  a  Female  Child, .        .        .  258 

The  Parrot 259 

Song  of  the  Colonists  departing  for  New  Zealand,        .        .  260 

Moonlight, 262 

Song  on  our  Queen, ;  263 

Cora  Linn,  or  the  Falls  of  the  Clyde, 26-1 

Chaucer  and  Windsor, 265 

Lines  suggested  by  the  Statue  of  Arnold  von  V.'iukelried,  26& 
To  the  United  States  of  North  A mericn,  .  .  .  .  267 
Lines  on  my  New  Child-sweetheart,  .  .  .  267 

The  Launch  of  a  First-rate, 268 

To  a  Young  Lady, iiG9 

Epistle  from  Algiers  to  Horace  Smith, 270 

Fragment  of  an  Oratorio, 272 

To  my  Niece,  Mary  Campbell, 274 

Queen  of  the  North, 275 

Hymn, 278 

Chorus  from  the  Clioephoroe,       ......      279 

On  a  Rural  Beauty  in  Mull, 281 

On  the  Glasgow  Yohinteirs, 282 

Elegy:  written  in  Mull, 283 

Verses  on  the  Queen  of  France, 284 

Chorus  from  the  Tragedy  of  Jephthes, 285 

The  Dirge  of  Wallace, 287 

Epistle  to  Three  Ladies,   . 289 

Death  of  my  only.  Son:  from  the  Danish,    ....      292 

Laudohn's  Attack, 293 

To  a  Beautiful  Jewish  Girl  of  Altona 294 

Farewell  to  my  Sister,  on  leaving  Edip burgh,  .  .  .  29(> 
Epitaphs, 29t» 


^xx  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  British  Grenadiers,    ........  298 

Trafalgar  ...........      299 

Lines  written  in  Sickness,        .......  300 

lanes  on  the  State  of  Greece:  occasioned  by  being  pressed 

to  make  it  a  Subject  of  Poetry,  1827,    ....      300 
iines  on  James  IV.  of  Scotland,  who  fell  at  the  Battle  of 

Flodden,      ..........  301 

'To  Jemima,  Rose,  and  Eleanore,  three  celebrated  Scottish 

Beauties,  ..........      202 

Song:  "  'T  is  now  the  Hour,"  .......  303 

Lines  to  Edward  Lytton'Bulwer,  on  the  Birth  of  his  Child,  304 
•Content,  ...........      305 

Lines  on  the  View  from  St.  Leonard's,  ....  306 

The  Dead  Eagle:  written  at  Oran,       .....      310 

;8ong:  "To  Love  in  my  Heart,"      ......  313 

Lines  written  in  a  Blank  Leaf  of  La  Perouse's  Voyages,  .      314 
Impromptu,  in  compliment  to  the  exquisite  Singing  of  Mrs. 

Allsop,     ........  .      316 

To  the  Countess  Ameriga  Vespucci,       .....  316 

Translations  from  Petrarch,  ......         .317 

Extracts  from  the  Mobiade,    ......    -    .  320 

Mary's  Return,      ........ 

Extempore  Verses:  from  a  Letter  to  Miss  Mayow,        .        .  320 
The  Glories  of  a  Summer  Day:  from  a  letter  to  Miss  Mayow, 

1808,         .  ......      32T> 

From  Anacrepn:  An  Impromptu  Translation,       .        .        .  327 
Lines,  on  telling  her  Faults  to  Miss  F.  W.  Mayow,  who  had 

accused  him  of  not  being  able  to  read  any  writing  but 

his  own,      .......        .        .        .  328 

Hohenlinden,          .......  .  329 

•Glenara,     .        ..........  330 

Exile  of  Erin,         .........      332 

Switzerland.   Written  for  a  Motto  to  Switzerland  Illustrated,  334 
Ode,  on  the  birth  of  Five  Kittens  in  the  House  of  her  Bri- 

tannic Majesty's  Consul-General  at  Algiers,    .        .        .  334 
My  Native  Land,    .........      335 

The  Friars  of  Dijon,          ........  330 


POEMS: 
On  the  Seasons,       ........      344 

On  finishing  Versions  from  the  Classics,  ....  344 

On  the  Death  of  a  Favorite  Parrot,      ....      34f> 

From  Anacreon,  ..........  347 

Summer,  ..........      348 

On  Miss  Mary  Campbell,  .......  349 

The  Pons  Asinorum:  or,  the  Asses'  Bridge,        .        .      350 
The  First  of  May,  1793,      .......  351 

Essay  on  the  Origin  of  Evil,  .        .        .        .        .        .356 

Ode  to  Music,    .       .       .......  362 


PLEASURES  OF  HOPE, 


ANALYSIS  OF  PART  I. 


THE  Poem  opens  with  a  comparison  between  the  beauty  of 
remote  objects  in  a  landscape,  and  those  ideal  scenes  of  felicity 
which  the  imagination  delights  to  contemplate — the  influence 
of  anticipation  upon  the  other  passions  is  next  delineated — an 
allusion  is  made  to  the  well-known  fiction  in  Pagan  tradition, 
that,  when  all  the  guardian  deities  of  mankind  abandoned  the 
world,  Hope  alone  was  left  behind — the  consolations  of  this 
passion  in  situations  of  danger  and  distress — the  seaman  on  his 
watch— the  soldier  marching  into  battle— allusion  to  the  inter- 
esting adventures  of  Byron. 

The  inspiration  of  Hope,  as  it  actuates  the  efforts  of  genius, 
whether  in  the  department  of  science,  or  of  taste— domestic 
felicity,  how  intimately  connected  with  views  of  future  happi- 
ness— picture  of  a  mother  watching  her  infant  when  asleep — 
pictures  of  the  prisoner,  the  maniac,  and  the  wanderer. 

From  the  consolations  of  individual  misery  a  transition  is 
made  to  prospects  of  political  improvement  in  the  future  state 
of  society — the  wide  field  that  is  yet  open  for  the  progress  of 
humanizing  arts  among  uncivilized  nations — from  these  views 
of  amelioration  of  society,  and  the  extension  of  liberty  and  truth 
over  despotic  and  barbarous  countries,  by  a  melancholy  con- 
trast of  ideas,  we  are  led  to  reflect  upon  the  hard  fate  of  a  brave 
people  recently  conspicuous  in  their  struggles  for  independence 
— description  of  the  capture  of  Warsaw,  of  the  last  contest  of 
the  oppressors  and  the  oppressed,  and  the  massacre  of  the  Polish 
patriots  at  the  bridge  of  Prague — apostrophe  to  the  self-inter- 
ested enemies  of  human  improvement — the  wrongs  of  Africa — 
the  barbarous  policy  of  Europeans  in  India — prophecy  in  the 
Hindoo  mythology  of  the  expected  descent  of  the  Deity  to 
redress  the  miseries  of  their  race,  aud  to  take  vengeance  on  the 
violators  of  justice  and  mercy 


THE 

PLEASURES  OF  HOPE. 


PART  I. 

AT  summer  eve,  when  Heaven's  ethereal  bow 
Spans  with  bright  arch  the  glittering  hills  below, 
Why  to  yon  mountain  turns  the  musing  eye, 
Whose  sunbright  summit  mingles  with  the  sky  ? 
Why  do  those  clifts  of  shadowy  tint  appear 
More  sweet  than  all  the  landscape  smiling  near  ? — 
7T  is  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view, 
And  robes  the  mountain  in  its  azure  hue. 
Thus,  with  delight,  we  linger  to  survey 
The  promised  joys  of  life's  unmeasured  way ; 
Thus,  from  afar,  each  dim-discovered  scene 
More  pleasing  seems  than  all  the  past  hath  been, 
And  every  form,  that  Fancy  can  repair 
From  dark  oblivion,  glows  divinely  there. 

What  potent  spirit  guides  the  raptured  eye 
To  pierce  the  shades  of  dim  futurity  ? 
Can  Wisdom  lend,  with  all  her  heavenly  power, 
The  pledge  of  Joy's  anticipated  hour  ? 
Ah,  no !  she  darkly  sees  the  fate  of  man — 
Her  dim  horizon  bounded  to  a  span ; 
Or,  if  she  hold  an  image  to  the  view, 
7T  is  Nature  pictured  too  severely  true. 
With  thee,  sweet  HOPE  !  resides  the  heavenly  light, 
That  pours  remotest  rapture  on  the  sight : 
Thine  is  the  charm  of  life's  bewildered  way, 
That  calls  each  slumbering  passion  into  play. 
Waked  by  thy  touch,  I  see  the  sister  band, 
On  tiptoe  watching,  start  at  thy  command, 


PLEASURES  OF  HOPE. 

And  fly  where'er  thy  mandate  bids  them  steer, 
To  Pleasure's  path  or  Glory's  bright  career. 

Primeval  HOPE,  the  Aonian  Muses  say, 
When  Man  and  Nature  mourned  their  first  decay ; 
When  every  form  of  death,  and  every  woe, 
Shot  from  malignant  stars  to  earth  below ; 
When  Murder  bared  her  arm,  and  rampant  War 
Yoked  the  red  dragons  of  her  iron  car ; 
When  Peace  and  Mercy,  banished  from  the  plain, 
Sprung  on  the  viewless  winds  to  Heaven  again j 
All,  all  forsook  the  friendless,  guilty  mind, 
But  HOPE,  the  charmer,  lingered  still  behind. 

Thus,  while  Elijah's  burning  wheels  prepare 
From  Carmel's  heights  to  sweep  the  fields  of  air, 
The  prophet's  mantle,  ere  Ids  flight  began, 
Dropt  on  the  world — a  sacred  gift  to  man. 

Auspicious  HOPE  !  in  thy  sweet  garden  grow 
Wreaths  for  each  toil,  a  charm  for  every  woe ; 
Won  by  their  sweets,  in  Nature's  languid  hour, 
The  way-worn  pilgrim  seeks  thy  summer  bower ; 
There,  as  the  wild  bee  murmurs  on  the  wing, 
What  peaceful  dreams  th>  handmaid  spirits  bring 
What  viewless  forms  th7  JEolian  organ  play, 
And  sweep  the  furrowed  lines  of  anxious  thought 
away. 

Angel  of  life !  thy  glittering  wings  explore 
Earth's  loneliest  bounds,  and  Ocean's  wildest  shore  ! 
Lo !  to  the  wintry  winds  the  pilot  yields 
His  bark  careering  o'er  unfathomed  fields ; 
Now  on  Atlantic  waves  he  rides  afar, 
Where  Andes,  giant  of  the  westeni  star, 
With  meteor-standard  to  the  winds  unfurled, 
Looks   from  his  throne   of  clouds  o'er  half  the 
world ! 

Now '  far  he   sweeps,  where  scarce  a   summer 

smiles, 

On  Bearing's  rocks,  or  Greenland's  naked  isles  : 
Cold  on  his  midnight  watch  the  breezes  blo\v, 
From  wastes  that  slumber  in  eternal  snow  : 


PLEASURES  OF  HOPE.  5 

And  waft,  across  the  waves'  tumultuous  roar, 
The  wolfs  long  howl  from  Oonalaska's  shore. 

Poor  child  of  danger,  nursling  of  the  stonn. 
Sad  are  the  woes  that  wreck  thy  manly  form  ! 
Rocks,  waves,  and  winds,  the  shattered  Kirk 

delay  j 
Thy  heart  is  sad,  thy  home  is  far  away. 

But  HOPE  can  here  her  moonlight  vigils  keep. 
And  sing  to  charm  the  spirit  of  the  deep : 
Swift  as  yon  streamer  lights  the  starry  pole, 
Her  visions  warm  the  watchman's  pensive  soul  : 
His  native  hills  that  rise  in  happier  climes, 
The  grot  that  heard  his  song  of  other  times. 
His  cottage  home,  his  bark  of  slender  sail, 
His  glassy  lake,  and  broomwood-blossomed  vale, 
Rush  on  his  thought ;  he  sweeps  before  the  wind. 
Treads  the  loved  shore  he  sighed  to  leave  behind. ; 
Meets  at  each  step  a  friend's  familiar  face. 
And  flies  at, last  to  Helen's  long  embrace , 
Wipes  from  her  cheek  the  rapture-speaking  tear  ! 
And  clasps,  with  many  a  sigh,  his  children  dear  ! 
While,  long  neglected,  but  at  length  caressed, 
His  faithful  dog  salutes  the  smiling  guest, 
Points  to  the  master's  eyes  (where'er  they  roam) 
His  wistful  face,  and  whines  a  welcome  home. 

Friend  of  the  brave  !  in  peril's  darkest  hour, 
Intrepid  Virtue  looks  to  thee  for  power ; 
To  thee  the  heart  its  trembling  homage  yields, 
On  stormy  floods,  and  carnage-covered  fields, 
When  front  to  front  the  bannered  hosts  combine, 
Halt  ere  they  close,  and  form  the  dreadful  line. 
When  all  is  still  on  Death's  devoted  soil, 
The  march-worn  soldier  mingles  for  the  toil ! 
As  rings  his  glittering  tube,  he  lifts  on  high 
The  dauntless  brow  and  spirit-speaking  eye, 
Hails  in  his  heart  the  triumph  yet  to  come, 
And  hears  thy  stormy  music  in  the  drum  ! 

And  such  thy  strength-inspiring  aid  that  bore 
The  hardy  Byron  to  his  native  shore — 


6  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE. 

In  horrid  climes,  where  Chiloe's  tempests  sweep 
Tumultuous  murmurs  o'er  the  troubled  deep, 
'T  was  his  to  mourn  Misfortune's  rudest  shock, 
Scourged  by  the  winds,  and  cradled  on  the  rock, 
To  wake  each  joyless  morn  and  search  again 
The  famished  haunts  of  solitary  men ; 
Whose  race,  unyielding  as  their  native  storm, 
Know  not  a  trace  of  Nature  but  the  form  • 
Yet  at  thy  call,  the  hardy  tar  pursued, 
Pale,  but  intrepid,  sad,  but  unsubdued, 
Pierced  the  deep  woods,  and  hailing  from  afar 
The  moon's  pale  planet  and  the  northern  star, 
Paused  at  each  dreary  cry,  unheard  before, 
Hyaenas  in  the  wild,  and  mermaids  on  the  shore  ; 
Till,  led  by  thee  o'er  many  a  cliff  sublime, 
He  found  a  warmer  world,  a  milder  clime, 
A  home  to  rest,  a  shelter  to  defend, 
Peace  and  repose,  a  Briton  and  a  friend  ! 

Congenial  HOPE  !  thy  passion-kindling  power, 
How  bright,  how  strong,  in  youth's  untroubled 

hour! 

On  yon  proud  height,  with  Genius  hand  in  hand 
I  see  thee  'light  and  wave  thy  golden  wand. 

"Go,  child  of  Heaven!    (thy  winged  words  pro- 
claim) 

'T  is  thine  to  search  the  boundless  fields  of  fame  ! 
Lo  !  Newton,  priest  of  Natm-e,  shines  afar, 
Scans  the  wide  world,  and  numbers  every  star ! 
Wilt  thou,  with  him,  mysterious  rites  apply, 
And  watch  the  shrine  with  wonder-beaming  eye  ! 
Yes,  thou  shalt  mark,  with  magic  art  profound, 
The  speed  of  light,  the  circling  march  of  sound : 
With  Franklin  grasp  the  lightning's  fiery  wing1. 
Or  yield  the  lyre  of  Heaven  another  string. 

"  The  Swedish  sage  admires,  in  yonder  bowers, 
His  winged  insects,  and  his  rosy  flowers ; 
Calls  from  their  woodland  haunts  the  savage  train. 
With    sounding  horn,    and   counts   them   on   the 
plain — 


PLEASUKES  OF  HOPE.  7 

So  once,  at  Heaven's  command,  the  wanderers  came 
To  Eden's  shade,  and  heard  their  various  name. 

"  Far  from  the  world,  in  yon  sequestered  clime, 
Slow  pass  the  sons  of  Wisdom,  more  sublime ; 
Calm  as  the  fields  of  Heaven,  his  sapient  eye 
The  loved  Athenian  lifts  to  realms  on  high, 
Admiring  Plato,  on  his  spotless  page, 
Stamps  the  bright  dictates  of  the  Father  sage : 
'  Shall  Nature  bound  to  Earth's  diurnal  span 
The  fire  of  God,  th'  immortal  soul  of  man  f 

"  Turn,  child  of  Heaven,  thy  rapture-lightened  eye 
To  Wisdom's  walks,  the  sacred  Nine  are  nigh  : 
Hark!    from  bright  spires  that  gild  the   Delphian 

height, 

From  streams  that  wander  in  eternal  light, 
Ranged  on  their  hill,  Harmonia's  daughters  swell 
The  mingling  tones  of  horn,  and  harp  and  shell  ; 
Deep  from  his  vaults  the  Loxian  murmurs  flow, 
And  Pythia's  awful  organ  peals  below. 

"  Beloved  of  Heaven !  the  smiling  Muse  shall  shed 
Her  moonlight  halo  on  thy  beauteous  head ; 
Shall  swell  thy  heart  to  rapture  unconfined, 
And  breathe  a  holy  madness  o'er  thy  mind. 
I  see  thee  roam  her  guardian  power  beneath, 
And  talk  with  spirits  on  the  midnight  heath ; 
Enquire  of  guilty  wanderers  whence  they  came, 
And  ask  each  blood-stained  form  his  earthly  name 
Then  weave  in  rapid  verse  the  deeds  they  tell, 
And  read  the  trembling  world  the  tales  of  hell. 

"  When  Venus,  throned  in  clouds  of  rosy  hue, 
Flings  from  her  golden  urn  the  vesper  dew, 
And  bids  fond  man  her  glimmering  noon  employ, 
Sacred  to  love,  and  walks  of  tender  joy ; 
A  milder  mood  the  goddess  shall  recall, 
And  soft  as  dew  thy  tones  of  music  fall ; 
While  Beauty's  deeply -pictured  smiles  impart 
A  pang  more  dear  than  pleasure  to  the  heart — 
Warm  as  thy  sighs  shall  flow  the  Lesbian  strain, 
And  plead  in  Beauty's  ear,  nor  plead  in  vain. 


PLEASURES  OF  HOPE.     , 

"  Or  wilt  thou  Orphean  hymns  more  sacred  deem. 
And  steep  thy  song  in  Mercy's  mellow  stream ; 
To  pensive  drops  the  radiant  eye  beguile — 
For  Beauty's  tears  are  lovelier  than  her  smile ; — 
On  Nature's  throbbing  anguish  pour  relief, 
And  teach  impassioned  souls  the  joy  of  grief  ? 

"  Yes ;  to  thy  tongue  shall  seraph  words  be  given, 
And  power  on  earth  to  plead  the  cause  of  Heaven  : 
The  proud,  the  cold  untroubled  heart  of  stone, 
That  never  mused  on  sorrow  bm  its  own, 
Unlocks  a  generous  store  at  thy  command, 
Like  Horeb's  rocks  beneath  the  prophet's  hand. 
The  living  lumber  of  his  kindred  earth, 
Charmed  into  soul,  receives  a  second  birth, 
Feels  thy  dread  power  another  heart  afford, 
Whose  passion-touched  harmonious  strings  accord 
True  as  the  circling  spheres  to  Nature's  plan  ; 
And  man,  the  brother,  lives  the  friend  of  man. 

"Bright  as  the  pillar  rose  at' Heaven's  command, 
When  Israel  marched  along  the  desert  land, 
Blazed  through  the  night  on  lonely  wilds  afar, 
And  told  the  path — a  never-setting  star : 
So,  heavenly  genius,  in  thy  course  divine, 
HOPE  is  thy  star,  her  light  is  ever  thine." 

Propitious  Power !  when  rankling  cares  annoy 
The  sacred  home  of  Hymenean  joy ; 
When  doomed  to  Poverty's  sequestered  dell, 
The  wedded  pair  of  love  and  virtue  dwell, 
Unpitied  by  the  world,  unknown  to  fame, 
Their  woes,  their  wishes,  and  their  hearts  the  same — • 
Oh,  there,  prophetic  HOPE  !  thy  smile  bestow, 
And   chase   the   pangs   that    worth   should   never 

know — 

There,  as  the  parent  deals  his  scanty  store 
To  friendless  babes,  and  weeps  to  give  no  more, 
Tell,  that  his  manly  race  shall  yet  assuage 
Then*  father's  wrongs,  and  shield  his  latter  age. 
What  though  for  him  no  Hybla  sweets  distil, 
Nor  bloomy  vines  wave  purple  on  the  hill ; 


PLEASURES  OF  HOPE.  9 

Tell,  that  when  silent  years  have  passed  away, 
That  when  his  eye  grows  dim,  his  tresses  gray, 
These  busy  hands  a  lovelier  cot  shall  build, 
And  deck  with  faker  flowers  his  little  field, 
And  call  from  Heaven  propitious  dews  to  breathe 
Arcadian  beauty  on  the  barren  heath ; 
Tell,  that  while  Love's  spontaneous  smile  endears, 
The  days  of  peace,  the  sabbath  of  his  years, 
Health  shall  prolong  to  many  a  festive  hour 
The  social  pleasures  of  his  humble  bower. 

Lo  !  at  the  couch  where  infant  beauty  sleeps, 
Her  silent  watch  the  mournful  mother  keeps : 
She,  while  the  lovely  babe  unconscious  lie*, 
Smiles  on  her  slumbering  child  with  pensive  eyes, 
And  weaves  a  song  of  melancholy  joy — 
"  Sleep,  image  of  thy  father,  sleep,  my  boy ; 
No  lingering  hour  of  sorrow  shall  be  thine ; 
No  sigh  that  rends  thy  father's  heart  and  mine ; 
Bright  as  his  manly  sire  the  son  shall  be 
In  form  and  soul ;  but,  ah !  more  blest  than  he ! 
Thy  fame,  thy  worth,  thy  filial  love  at  last, 
Shall  soothe  his  aching  heart  for  all  the  past — 
With  many  a  smile  my  solitude  repay, 
And  chase  the  world's  ungenerous  scorn  away. 

"  And  say,  when  summoned  from  the  world  and 

thee, 

I  lay  my  head  beneath  the  willow  tree, 
Wilt  tJwu,  sweet  mourner !  at  my  stone  appear, 
And  soothe  my  parted  spirit  lingering  near  ? 
Oh,  wilt  thou  come  at  evening  hour  to  shed 
The  tears  of  Memory  o'er  my  narrow  bed ; 
With  aching  temples  on  thy  hand  reclined, 
Muse  on  the  last  farewell  I  leave  behind, 
Breathe  a  deep  sigh  to  winds  that  murmur  low 
And  think  on  all  my  love,  and  all  my  woe  T 

So  speaks  affection,  ere  the  infant  eye 
Can  look  regard,  or  brighten  in  reply ; 
But  when  a  cherub  lip  hath  learnt  to  claim 
A  mother's  ear  by  that  endearing  name ; 

A* 


10  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE. 

Soon  as  the  playful  innocent  can  prove 
A  tear  of  pity,  or  a  smile  of  love, 
Or  cons  his  murmuring  task  beneath  her  care, 
Or  lisps  with  holy  look  his  evening  prayer, 
Or  gazing,  mutely  pensive,  sits  to  hear 
The  mournful  ballad  warbled  in  his  ear ; 
How  fondly  looks  admiring  HOPE  the  while, 
At  every  artless  tear,  and  every  smile ; 
How  glows  the  joyous  parent  to  descry 
A  guileless  bosom,  true  to  sympathy ! 

Where  is  the  troubled  heart  consigned  to  share 
Tumultuous  toils,  or  solitary  care, 
Unblest  by  visionary  thoughts  that  stray 
To  count  the  joys  of  Fortune's  better  day ! 
Lo,  nature,  life,  and  liberty  relume 
The  dim-eyed  tenant  of,  the  dungeon  gloom, 
A  long-lost  friend,  or  hapless  child  restored, 
Smiles  at  its  blazing  hearth  and  social  board ; 
Warm  from  his  heart  the  tears  of  rapture  flow, 
And  virtue  triumphs  o'er  remembered  woe. 

Chide  not  his  peace,  proud  Reason ;  nor  destroy 
The  shadowy  forms  of  uncreated  joy, 
That  urge  the  lingering  tide  of  life,  and  pour 
Spontaneous  slumber  on  his  midnight  hour. 
Hark !  the  wild  maniac  sings,  to  chide  the  gale 
That  wafts  so  slow  her  lover's  distant  sail ; 
She,  sad  spectatress,  on  the  wintry  shore, 
Watched  the  rude  surge  his  shroudless  corse  that 

bore, 

Knew  the  pale  form,  and,  shrieking  in  amaze, 
Clasped  her  cold  hands,  and  fixed  her  maddening 

gaze : 
Poor  widowed  wretch !   't  was  there  she  wept   ia 

vain, 

Till  Memory  fled  her  agonizing  brain ; — 
But  Mercy  gave,  to  charm  the  sense  of  woe, 
Ideal  peace,  that  truth  could  ne'er  bestow ; 
Warm  on  her  heart  the  joys  of  Fancy  beam, 
And  aimless  HOPE  delights  her  darkest  dream. 


PLEASURES  OF  HOPE.  11 

Oft  when  yon  moon  Las  climbed  the  midnight  sky, 
And  the  lone  sea-bird  wakes  its  wildest  cry, 
Piled  on  the  steep,  her  blazing  fagots  burn 
To  hail  the  bark  that  never  can  return ; 
And  still  she  waits,  but  scarce  forbears  to  weep 
That  constant  love  can  linger  on  the  deep. 

And,  mark  the  wretch,  whose  wanderings  never 

knew 

The  world's  regard,  that  soothes,  though  half  un- 
true j 

Whose  erring  heart  the  lash  of  sorrow  bore, 
But  found  not  pity  when  it  erred  no  more. 
You  friendless  man,  at  whose  dejected  eye 
Th'  unfeeling  proud  one  looks — and  passes  by, 
Condemned  on  Penury's  barren  path  to  roam, 
Scorned  by  the  world,  and  left  without  a  home — 
Even  he,  at  evening,  should  he  chance  to  stray 
Down  by  the  hamlet's  hawthorn-scented  way, 
Where,  round  the  cot's  romantic  glade,  are  seen 
The  blossomed  bean-field,  and  the  sloping  green, 
Leans  o'er  its  humble  gate,  and  thinks  the  while — 
Oh !  that  for  me  some  home  like  this  would  smile, 
Some  hamlet  shade,  to  yield  my  sickly  form 
Health  in  the  breeze,  and  shelter  in  the  storm  ! 
There  should  my  hand  no  stinted  boon  assign 
To  wretched  hearts  with  sorrow  such  as  mine ! — 
That  generous  wish  can  soothe  unpitied  care, 
And  HOPE  half  mingles  with  the  poor  man's 
prayer. 

HOPE  !  when  I  mourn,  with  sympathizing  mind, 
The  wrongs  of  fate,  the  woes  of  human  kind, 
Thy  blissful  omens  bid  my  spirit  see 
The  boundless  fields  of  rapture  yet  to  be  ; 
I  watch  the  wheels  of  Nature's  mazy  plan, 
And  learn  the  future  by  the  past  of  man. 

Come,  bright  Improvement !  on  the  car  of  Time, 
And  rule  the  spacious  world  from  clime  to  clime ; 
Thy  handmaid  arts  shall  every  wild  explore, 
Trace  every  wave,  and  culture  every  shore. 


12  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE. 

On  Erie's  banks,  where  tigers  steal  along, 
And  the  dread  Indian  chants  a  dismal  song, 
Where  human  fiends  on  midnight  errands  Avalk, 
And  bathe  in  brains  the  murderous  tomahawk, 
There  shall  the  flocks  on  thymy  pasture  stray, 
And  shepherds  dance  at  Summer's  opening  day ; 
Each  wandering  genius  of  the  lonely  glen 
Shall  start  to  view  the  glittering  haunts  of  men, 
And  silent  watch,  on  woodland  heights  around, 
The  village  curfew  as  it  tolls  profound. 

In  Libyan  groves,   where   damned  rites   are 

done, 

That  bathe  the  rocks  in  blood,  and  veil  the  sun, 
Truth  shall  arrest  the  murderous  arm  profane, 
Wild  Obi  flies — the  veil  is  rent  in  twain. 

Where  barbarous  hordes  on  Scythian  mountains 

roam, 

Truth,  Mercy,  Freedom,  yet  shall  find  a  home ; 
Where'er  degraded  Nature  bleeds  and  pines, 
From  Guinea's  coast  to  Sibir's  dreary  mines, 
Truth  shall  pervade  th'  unfathomed  darkness  there, 
And  light  the  dreadful  features  of  despair. — . 
Hark !  the  stern  captive  spurns  his  heavy  load, 
And  asks  the  image  back  that  Heaven  bestowed  ! 
Fierce  in  his  eye  the  fire  of  valor  burns, 
And,  as  the  slave  departs,  the  man  returns. 

Oh !  sacred  Truth !  thy  triumph  ceased  awhile, 
And  HOPE,  thy  sister,  ceased  with  thee  to  smile, 
When    leagued    Oppression    poured    to    Northern 

wars 

Her  whiskered  pandoors  and  her  fierce  hussars, 
Waved  her  dread  standard  to  the  breeze  of  rnorn, 
Pealed  her  loud  drum,   and  twanged  her  trumpet 

horn; 

Tumultuous  horror  brooded  o'er  her  van, 
Presaging  wrath  to  Poland — and  to  man  ! 

Warsaw's   last   champion    from    her   height  sur- 
veyed, 
Wide  o'er  the  fields,  a  waste  of  ruin  laid, — 


PLEASURES  OF  HOPE\  13 

Oh !     Heaven !     he  cried,   my  bleeding  country 

save ! — 

Is  there  no  hand  on  high  to  shield  the  brave  ? 
Yet,  though  destruction  sweep  those  lovely  plains, 
Rise,  fellow-men !  our  country  yet  remains ! 
By  that  dread  name,  we  wave  the  sword  on  high  ! 
And  swear  for  her  to  live ! — with  her  to  die ! 

He  said,  and  on  the  rampart-heights  arrayed 
His  trusty  warriors,  few,  but  undismayed ; 
Firm-paced  and  slow,  a  horrid  front  they  form, 
Still  as  the  breeze,  but  dreadful  as  the  storm ; 
Low  murmuring  sounds  along  their  banners  fly, 
Revenge,  or  death, — the  watchword  and  reply ; 
Then  pealed  the  notes,  omnipotent  to  charm, 
And  the  loud  tocsin  tolled  their  last  alarm ! — 

In  vain,  alas !  in  vain,  ye  gallant  few ! 
From  rank  to  rank  your  volleyed  thunder  flew : — 
Oh,  bloodiest  picture  in  the  book  of  Tune, 
Sarmatia  fell,  unwept,  without  a  crime ; 
Found  not  a  generous  friend,  a  pitying  foe, 
Strength  in  her  arms,  nor  mercy  in  her  woe  ! 
Dropped  from  her  nerveless  grasp  the  shattered 

spear, 

Closed  her  bright  eye,  and  curbed  her  high  ca- 
reer ; — 

HOPE,  for  a  season,  bade  the  world  farewell, 
And  Freedom  shrieked — as  KOSCIUSKO  fell ! 
The  sun  went  down,  nor  ceased  the  carnage 

there, 

Tumultuous  Murder  shook  the  midnight  air — 
On  Prague's  proud  arch  the  fires  of  ruin  glow, 
His  blood-dyed  waters  murmuring  far  below ; 
The  storm  prevails,  the  rampart  yields  a  way, 
Bursts  the  wild  cry  of  horror  and  dismay ! 
Hark,   as  the   smouldering    piles   with    thunder 

fall, 

A  thousand  shrieks  for  hopeless  mercy  call ! 
Earth  shook — red  meteors  flashed  along  the  sky, 
And  conscious  Nature  shuddered  at  the  cry ! 


14  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE. 

Oh !   righteous  Heaven ;    ere  Freedom  found  a 

grave, 

Why  slept  the  sword,  omnipotent  to  save  ? 
Where  was  thine  arm,  0  Vengeance !  where  thy 

rod, 

That  smote  the  foes  of  Zion  and  of  God ; 
That  crushed  proud  Ammon,  when  his  iron  car 
Was  yoked  in  wrath,  and  thundered  from  afar  ? 
"Where  was  the  storm  that  slumbered  till  the  host 
Of  blood-stained  Pharaoh  left  their  trembling  coast ; 
Then  bade  the  deep  in  wild  commotion  flow, 
And  heaved  an  ocean  on  their  march  below  ? 

Departed  spirits  of  the  mighty  dead ! 
Ye  that  at  Marathon  and  Leuctra  bled ! 
Friends  of  the  world !  restore  your  swords  to  nan, 
Fight  in  his  sacred  cause,  and  lead  the  van ! 
Yet  for  Sarmatia's  tears  of  blood  atone, 
And  make  her  arm  puissant  as  your  own  ! 
Oh !  once  again  to  Freedom's  cause  return 
The  patriot  TELL — the  BRUCE   or  BAinfocK- 
BURN! 

Yes  !  thy  proud  lords,  unpitied  land !  shall  riee 
That  man  hath  yet  a  soul — and  dare  be  free  ! 
A  little  while,  along  thy  saddening  plains, 
The  starless  night  of  Desolation  reigns ; 
Truth  shall  restore  the  light  by  Nature  given, 
And,  like  Prometheus,  bring  the  fire  of  Heaven  ! 
Prone  to  the  dust  Oppression  shall  be  hurled, 
Her  name,  her  nature,  withered  from  the  world ! 

Ye  that  the  rising  morn  invidious  mark, 
And  hate  the  light — because  your  deeds  are  dark 
Ye  that  expanding  truth  invidious  view, 
And  think,  or  wish,  the  song  of  HOPE  untrue ; 
Perhaps  your  little  hands  presume  to  span 
The  march  of  Genius  and  the  powers  of  man ; 
Perhaps  ye  watch,  at  Pride's  unhallowed  shrine, 
Her  victims,  newly  slain,  and  thus  divine : — 
"  Here  shall  thy  triumph,  Genius,  cease,  and  here 
Truth,  Science,  Virtue,  close  your  short  career." 


PLEASURES  OF  HOPE.  15 

Tyrants  !  in  vain  ye  trace  the  wizard  ring ; 
In  vain  ye  limit  Mind's  unwearied  spring : 
What !  can  ye  lull  the  winged  winds  asleep, 
Arrest  the  rolling  world,  or  chain  the  deep '/ 
No ! — the  wild  wave  contemns  your  sceptred  hand  : 
It  rolled  not  back  when  Canute  gave  command  ! 

Man  !  can  thy  doom  no  brighter  soul  allow  ? 
Still  must  thou  live  a  blot  on  Nature's  brow  .' 
Shall  war's  polluted  banner  ne'er  be  failed  ? 
Shall  crimes  and  tyrants  cease  but  with  the  world  -. 
What !  are  thou  triumphs,  sacred  Truth,  belied  f 
Why  then  hath  Plato  lived — or  Sidney  died  ? 

Ye  fond  adorers  of  departed  fame, 
Who  warm  at  Scipio's  worth,  or  Tully's  name  ! 
Ye  that,  in  fancied  vision,  can  admire 
The  sword  of  Brutus,  and  the  Theban  lyre  ! 
Rapt  in  historic  ardor,  who  adore 
Each  classic  haunt,  and  well  remembered  shore, 
Where  Valor  tuned,  amidst  her  chosen  throng, 
The  Thracian  trumpet,  and  the  Spartan  song ; 
Or,  wandering  thence,  behold  the  later  charms 
Of  England's  glory,  and  Helvetia's  arms  ! 
See  Roman  fire  in  Hampden's  bo^om  swell, 
And  fate  and  freedom  in  the  shaft  of  Tell ! 
Say,  ye  fond  zealots  to  the  worth  of  yore, 
Hath  Valor  left  the  world — to  live  no  more  ? 
No  more  shall  Brutus  bid  a  tyrant  die, 
And  sternly  smile  with  vengeance  in  his  eye  ? 
Hampden  no  more,  Avhen  suffering  Freedom  calls, 
Encounter  Fate,  and  triumph  as  he  falls  ? 
Nor  Tell  disclose,  through  peril  and  alarm, 
The  might  that  slumbers  in  a  peasant's  arm "? 

Yes  !  in  that  generous  cause,  for  ever  strong, 
The  patriot's  virtue  and  the  poet's  song, 
Still,  as  the  tide  of  ages  rolls  away, 
Shall  charm  the  world,  unconscious  of  decay. 

Yes !   there  are  hearts,  prophetic  HOPE  may 

trust, 
That  slumber  yet  in  uncreated  dust, 


1C  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE. 

Ordained  to  fire  th'  adoring-  sons  of  earth, 
With  every  charm  of  wisdom  and  of  worth ; 
Ordained  to  light,  with  intellectual  day, 
The  mazy  wheels  of  nature  as  they  play, 
Or,  warm  with  Fancy's  energy,  to  glow 
And  rival  all  but  Shakspeare's  name  below. 

And  say,  supernal  Powers  !  who  deeply  scan 
Heaven's  dark  decrees,  unfathomed  yet  by  man, 
"When  shall  the  world  call  down,    to   cleanse  her 

shame, 

That  embryo  spirit,  yet  without  a  name — 
That  friend  of  Nature,  whose  avenging  hands 
•  Shall  burst  the  Libyan's  adamantine  bands  ? 
Who,  sternly  marking  on  his  native  soil 
The  blood,  the  tears,  the  anguish,  and  the  toil, 
Shall  bid  each  righteous  heart  exult,  to  see 
Peace  to  the  slave,  and  vengeance  on  the  free ! 

Yet,  yet,  degraded  men !  th'  expected  day 
That  breaks  your  bitter  cup,  is  far  away ; 
Trade,  wealth,  and  fashion,  ask  you  still  to  bleed, 
And  holy  men  give  Scripture  for  the  deed  ; 
Scourged,  and  debased,  no  Briton  stoops  to  save 
A  wretch,  a  coward ;  yes,  because  a  slave  ! — 

Eternal  Nature !  when  thy  giant  hand 
Had  heaved  the  floods,  and  fixed  the  trembling  land, 
When  life  sprang  startling  at  thy  plastic  call, 
Endless  her  forms,  and  man  the  lord  of  all ! 
Say,  was  that  lordly  form  inspired  by  thee, 
To  wear  eternal  chains  and  bow  the  knee  ? 
Was  man  ordained  the  slave  of  man  to  toil, 
Yoked  with  the  brutes,  and  fettered  to  the  soil ; 
Weighed  in  a  tyrant's  balance  with  his  gold? 
No ! — Nature  stamped  us  in  a  heavenly  mould  ! 
She  bade  no  wretch  his  thankless  labor  urge, 
Nor,  trembling,  take  the  pittance  and  the  scourge  ! 
No  homeless  Libyan,  on  the  stormy  deep, 
To  call  upon  his  country's  name,  and  weep  !— 

Lo  !  once  in  triumph,  on  his  boundless  plain, 
The  quivered  chief  of  Congo  loved  to  reign ; 


PLEASURES  OF  HOPE.  17 

With  fires  proportioned  to  his  native  sky. 
Strength  in  his  arm,  and  lightning  in  his  eye  ; 
Scoured  with  wild  feet  his  sun-illumined  /one, 
The  spear,  the  lion,  and  the  woods,  his  own  ! 
Or  led  the  combat,  bold  without  a  plan, 
An  artless  savage,  but  a  fearless  man  ! 

The  plunderer  came  ! — alas !  no  glory  smiles 
For  Congo's  chief,  on  yonder  Indian  Isles  ; 
Forever  fallen !  no  son  of  Nature  now, 
With  Freedom  chartered  on  his  manly  brow  ! 
Faint,  bleeding,  bound,  he  weeps  the  night  away, 
And  when  the  sea-wind  wafts  the  dewless  day. 
Starts,  with  a  bursting  heart,  for  evermore 
To  curse  the  sun  that  lights  their  guilty  si  i  ore  ! 

The  shrill  horn  blew ;  at  that  alarum  knell 
His  guardian  angel  took  a  last  farewell ! 
That  funeral  dirge  to  darkness  hath  resigned 
The  fiery  grandeur  of  a  generous  mind  ! 
Poor  fettered  man  !  I  hear  thee  whispering  low 
Unhallowed  vows  to  Guilt,  the  child  of  AVoe, 
Friendless  thy  heart  ;  and  canst  thou  harbor  there 
A  wish  but  death — a  passion  but  despair  ? 

The  widowed  Indian,  when  her  lord  expires, 
Mounts  the  dread  pile,  and  braves  the  funeral  tires. 
So  falls  the  heart  at  Thraldom's  bitter  sigh  ! 
So  Virtue  dies,  the  spouse  of  Liberty  ! 

But  not  to  Libya's  barren  climes  alone, 
To  Chili,  or  the  wild  Siberian  zone, 
Belong  the  wretched  heart  and  haggard  eye, 
Degraded  worth,  and  poor  misfortune's  sigh  ! 
Ye  orient  realms,  where  Ganges'  waters  run  ! 
Prolific  fields  !  dominions  of  the  sun  ! 
How  long  your  tribes  have  trembled  and  obeyed ! 
How  long  was  Timour's  iron  sceptre  swayed. 
Whose  marshalled  hosts,  the  lions  of  the  plain, 
From  Scythia's  northern  mountains  to  the  main, 
Raged  o'er  your  plundered   shrines   and   altars 

bare, 
With  blazing  torch  and  gory  scymetar, — 


13  PLEASUKES  OF  HOPE. 

Stunned  with  the  cries  of  death  each  gentle  gale 
And  bathed  in  blood  the  verdure  of  the  vale ! 
Yet  could  no  pangs  the  immortal  spirit  tame, 
When  Brama's  children  perished  for  his  name ; 
The  martyrsm  led  beneath  avenging  power, 
And  braved  the  tyrant  in  his  torturing  hour  ! 

When  Europe  sought  your  subject  realms  to  gain 
And  stretched  her  giant  sceptre  o'er  the  main, 
Taught  her  proud  barks  the  winding  way  to  shape, 
And  braved  the  stormy  Spirit  of  the  Cape  ; 
Children  of  Brama !  then  was  Mercy  nigh 
To  wash  the  stain  of  blood's  eternal  dye  ? 
Did  Peace  descend,  to  triumph  and  to  save, 
When  freeborn  Britons  crossed  the  Indian  wave  ? 
Ah,  no ! — to  more  than  Rome's  ambition  true, 
The  Nurse  of  Freedom  gave  it  not  to  you  ! 
She  the  bold  route  of  Europe's  guilt  began, 
And,  in  the  march  of  nations,  led  the  van  ! 

Rich  in  the  gems  of  India's  gaudy  zone; 
And  plunder  piled  from  kingdoms  not  then-  own, 
Degenerate  trade  !  thy  minions  could  despise 
The  heart-born  anguish  of  a  thousand  cries  ; 
Could   lock,    with   impious   hands,    their   teeming 

store, 

While  famished  nations  died  along  the  shore  : 
Could  mock  the  groans  of  fellow-men,  and  bear 
The  curse  of  kingdoms  peopled  with  despair ; 
Could  stamp  disgrace  on  man's  polluted  name, 
And  barter,  with  then-  gold,  eternal  shame  ! 

But  hark  !  as  bowed  to  earth  the  Bramin  kneels 
From  heavenly  climes  propitious  thunder  peals  ! 
Of  India's  fate  her  guardian  spirits  tell, 
Prophetic  murmurs  breathing  on  the  shell, 
.  And  solemn  sounds  that  awe  the  listening  mind, 
Roll  on  the  azure  paths  of  every  wind. 

"  Foes  of  mankind !  (her  guardian  spirits  say,) 
Revolving  ages  bring  the  bitter  day, 
AVhen  Heaven's  unerring  arm  shall  fall  on  you, 
And  blood  for  blood  these  Indian  plains  bedew ; 


PLEASURES  OF  HOPE.  ID 

Nine  times  have  Brama's  wheels  of  lightning  hm-L.-d 
His  awful  presence  o'er  the  alarmed  world  ; 
Nine  times  hath  Guilt,  through  all  his  giant  frame, 
Convulsive  trembled,  as  the  Mighty  came ; 
Nine  times  hath  suffering  Mercy  spared  in  vain — 
But  Heaven  shall  burst  her  starry  gates  again  ! 
He  comes !  dread  Brama  shakes  the  sunless  sky 
"With  murmuring  wrath,  and  thunders  from  on  high, 
Heaven's  fiery  horse,  beneath  his  warrior  form, 
Paws  the  light  clouds,  and  gallops  on  the  storm  ! 
Wide  waves  his  nickering  sword ;  his  bright  arms 

glow 

Like  summer  suns  and  light  the  world  below ! 
Earth,  and  her  trembling  isles  in  Ocean's  bed, 
Are  shook  j  and  Nature  rocks  beneath  his  tread ! 

"To  pour  redress  on  India's  injured  realm, 
The  oppressor  to  dethrone,  the  proud  to  whelm  ; 
To  chase  destruction  from  her  plundered  shore 
"With  arts  and  arms  that  triumphed  once  before, 
The  tenth  Avatar  comes  !  at  Heaven's  command 
Shall  Seriswatte  wave  her  hallowed  wand ! 
And  Camdeo  bright,  and  Ganesa  sublime, 
Shall  bless  with  joy  their  own  propitious  clime  ! — 
Come,  Heavenly  Powers  !  primeval  peace  restore ! 
Love ! — Mercy ! — Wisdom ! — rule  for  evermore  P 


ANALYSIS  OF  PART  H. 


APOSTROPHE  to  the  power  of  Love — its  intimate  connection 
with  generous  and  social  Sensibility — allusion  to  that  beautiful 
passage  in  the  beginning  of  the  Book  ol  Genesis,  which  repre- 
sents the  happiness  of  Paradise  itself  incomplete,  till  love  was 
superadded  to  its  other  blessings — the  dreams  of  future  felicity 
which  a  lively  imagination  is  apt  to  cherish,  when  Hope  is  ani- 
mated by  refined  attachment — this  disposition  to  combine,  ia 
one  imaginary  scene  of  residence,  all  that  is  pleasing  in  our 
estimate  of  happine  a,  compared  to  the  skill  of  the-  great  artist 
who  personified  perfect  beauty,  in  the  picture  of  Venus,  by  an 
assemblage  of  the  most  beautiful  features  he  could  find — a 
summer  and  winter  evening  described,  as  they  may  be  supposed 
to  arise  in  the  mind  of  one  who  wishes,  with  enthusiasm,  i'or  the 
union  of  friendship  and  retirement. 

Hope  and  Imagination  inseparable  agents — even  in  those  con- 
templative moments  when  our  imagination  wanders  beyond  the 
boundaries  of  this  world,  our  minds  are  not  unattended  with  an 
impression  that  we  shall  some  day  have  a  wider  and  more  dis- 
tinct prospect  of  the  universe,  instead  of  the  partial  glimpse  we 
now  enjoy. 

The  last  and  most  sublime  influence  of  Hope  is  the  concluding 
topic  of  the  poem — the  predominance  of  a  belief  in  a  future 
state  over  the  terrors  attendant  on  dissolution — the  baneful  in- 
fluence of  that  sceptical  philosophy  which  bars  us  from  such 
comforts — allusion  to  the  fate  of  a  suicide — episode  of  Conrad 
and  Ellenore— conclusion. 


THE 

PLEASURES  OF  HOPE. 


PART   II. 

IN  joyous  youth,  what  soul  hath  never  known 
Thought,  feeling,  taste,  harmonious  to  its  own  / 
"Who  hath  not  paused  while  Beauty's  pensive  eyo 
Asked  from  his  heart  the  homage  of  a  sigh  ? 
Who  hath  not  owned,  with  rapture-smitten  frame, 
The  power  of  grace,  the  magic  of  a  name  ? 

There  be,  perhaps,  who  barren  hearts  avow, 
Cold  as  the  rocks  on  Torneo's  hoary  brow  ; 
There  be,  whose  loveless  wisdom  never  failed, 
In  self-adoring  pride  securely  mailed : — 
But,  triumph  not,  ye  peace-enamoured  few  ! 
Fire,  Nature,  Genius,  never  dwelt  with  you ! 
For  you  no  fancy  consecrates  the  scene 
Where  rapture  uttered  vows,  and  wept  between, 
'T  is  yours,  unmoved,  to  sever  and  to  meet ; 
No  pledge  is  sacred,  and  no  home  is  sweet ! 

Who  that  would  ask  a  heart  to  dulness  wed, 
The  waveless  calm,  the  slumber  of  the  dead  ? 
No ;  the  wild  bliss  of  Nature  needs  alley, 
And  fear  and  sorrow  fan  the  foe  of  joy ! 
And  say,  without  our  hopes,  wi&out  our  fears, 
Without  the  home  that  plighted  love  endears. 
Without  the  smile  from  partial  beauty  won, 
Oh !  what  were  man  ? — a  world  without  a  sun.  ^ 

Till  Hymen  brought  his  love-delighted  hour, 
There  dwelt  no  joy  in  Eden's  rosy  bower ! 
In  vain  the  viewless  seraph  lingering  there, 
At  starry  midnight  charmed  the  silent  air  j ' 
In  vain  the  mid-bird  carolled  on  the  steep, 
To  hail  the  sun,  slow  wheeling  from  the  deep  j 


5  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE. 

In  vain,  to  soothe  the  solitary  shade, 
Aerial  notes  in  mingling  measure  played ; 
The  summer  -wind  that  shook  the  spangled  treor 
The  whispering  wave,  the  murmur  of  the  bee ; — 
Still  slowly  passed  the  melancholy  day, 
And  still  the  stranger  wist  not  where  to  stray. 
The  world  was  sad ! — the  garden  was  a  wild  ! 
And  man,  the  hermit,  sighed — till  woman  smiled  ! 

True,   the   sad  power  to   generous   hearts    may 

bring 

Delirious  anguish  on  his  fiery  wing ; 
Barred  from  delight  by  Fate's  untimely  hand, 
By  wealthless  lot,  or  pitiless  command : 
Or  doomed  to  gaze  on  beauties  that  adorn 
The  smile  of  triumph  or  the  frown  of  scorn  ; 
While  Memory  watches  o'er  the  sad  review 
Of  joys  that  faded  like  the  morning  dew  ; 
Peace  may  depart — and  life  and  nature  seem 
A  barren  path,  a  wildness,  and  a  dream ! 

But  can  the  noble  mind  for  ever  brood, 
The  willing  victim  of  a  weary  mood, 
On  heartless  cares  that  squander  life  away, 
And  cloud  young  Genius  brightening  into  day  ? — 
Shame  to  the  coward  thought  that  e'er  betrayed 
The  noon  of  manhood  to  a  myrtle  shade  ! — 
If  HOPE'S  creative  spirit  cannot  raise 
One  trophy  sacred  to  thy  future  days, 
Scorn  the  dull  crowd  that  haunt  the  gloomy  shrine, 
Of  hopeless  love  to  murmur  and  repine ! 
But,  should  a  sigh  of  milder  mood  express 
Thy  heart-warm  wishes,  true  to  happiness, 
Should  Heaven's  fair  harbinger  delight  to  pour 
Her  blissful  visions  on  thy  pensive  hour, 
No  tear  to  blot  thy  memory's  pictured  page, 
No  fears  but  such  as  fancy  can  assuage ; 
Though  thy  wild  heart  some  hapless  hour  may  miss 
The  peaceful  tenor  of  unvaried  bliss, 
(For  love  pursues  an  ever-devious  race, 
True  to  the  winding  lineaments  of  grace : ) 


PLEASURES  OF  HOPE.  23 

Yet  still  may  HOPE  her  talisman  employ 
To  snatch  from  Heaven  anticipated  joy, 
And  all  her  kindred  energies  impart 
That  burn  the  brightest  in  the  purest  heart. 

When  first  the  Rhodian's  mimic  art  arrayed 
The  queen  of  Beauty  in  her  Cyprian  shade, 
The  happy  master  mingled  on  his  piece 
Each  look  that  charmed  him  in  the  fair  of  Greece. 
To  faultless  Nature  true,  he  stole  a  grace 
From  every  finer  form  and  sweeter  face ; 
And  as  he  sojourned  on  the  ^Egean  isles, 
Wooed  all  their  love,  and  treasured  all  their  smile..  • 
Then  glowed  the  tints,  pure,  precious,  and  refined, 
And  mortal  charms  seemed   heavenly   when   com- 
bined ! 

Love  on  the  picture  smiled !     Expression  poured 
Her  mingling  spirit  there — and  Greece  adored ! 

So  thy  fair  hand,  enamoured  Fancy !  gleans 
The  treasured  pictures  of  a  thousand  scenes ; 
Thy  pencil  traces  on  the  lover's  thought 
Some  cottage-home,  from  towns  and  toil  remote, 
Where  love  and  lore  may  claim  alternate  hours, 
With  Peace  embosomed  in  Idalian  bowers  ! 
Remote  from  busy  Life's  bewildered  way, 
O'er  all  his  heart  shall  Taste  and  Beauty  sway ! 
Free  on  the  sunny  slope,  or  winding  shore, 
With  hermit  steps  to  wander  and  adore ! 
There  shall  he  love,  when  genial  morn  appears, 
Like  pensive  Beauty  smiling  in  her  tears, 
To  watch  the  brightening  roses  of  the  sky, 
And  muse  on  Nature  with  a  poet's  eye ! — 
And  when  the  sun's  last  splendor  lights  the  deep, 
The  woods  and  waves,  and  murmuring  winds  asleep, 
When  fairy  harps  th'  Hesperian  planet  hail, 
And  the  lone  cuckoo  sighs  along  the  vale, 
His  path  shall  be  where  streamy  mountains  swell 
Their  shadowy  grandeur  o'er  the  narrow  dell, 
Where  mouldering  piles  and  forests  intervene, 
Singling  with  darker  tints  the  living  green ; 


£-1  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE. 

No  circling  hills  his  ravished  eye  to  bound, 
Heaven,  Earth,  and  Ocean,  blazing  all  around. 

The  moon  is  up — the  watch-tower  dimly  burns — 
And  down  the  vale  his  sober  step  returns : 
But  pauses  oft,  as  winding  rocks  convey 
The  still  sweet  fall  of  music  far  away ; 
And  oft  he  lingers  from  his  home  awhile 
To  watch  the  dying  notes ! — and  start,  and  smilo  ! 

Let  Winter  come !  let  polar  spirits  sweep 
The  darkening  world,  and  tempest-troubled  deep  ! 
Though  boundless   snows  the  withered  heath   do, 

form, 

And  the  dim  sun  scarce  wanders  through  the  storm, 
Yet  shall  the  smile  of  social  love  repay, 
With  mental  light,  the  melancholy  day  ! 
And,  when  its  short  and  sullen  noon  is  o'er, 
The  ice-chained  waters  slumbering  on  the  shore, 
How  bright  the  fagots  in  his  little  hall 
Blaze  on  the  hearth,  and  warm  the  pictured  wall  I 

How  blest  he  names,  in  Love's  familiar  tone, 
The  kind  fair  friend,  by  nature  marked  his  own ; 
And,  in  the  waveless  mirror  of  his  mind, 
Views  the  fleet  years  of  pleasure  left  behind, 
Since  when  her  empire  o'er  his  heart  began  ! 
Since  first  he  called  her  his  before  the  holy  man  J 

Trim  the  gay  taper  in  his  rustic  dome, 
And  light  the  wintry  paradise  of  home ; 
And  let  the  half-uncurtained  window  hail 
Some  way-worn  man  benighted  in  the  vale ! 
Now,  while  the  moaning  night-wind  rages  high, 
As  sweep  the  shot-stars  down  the  troubled  sky, 
While  fiery  hosts  in  Heaven's  wide  circle  play, 
And  bathe  in  lurid  light  the  milky- way, 
Safe  from  the  storm,  the  meteor,  and  the  shower, 
Some  pleasing  page  shall  charm  the  solemn  hour—- 
With  pathos  shall  command,  with  wit  beguile, 
A  generous  tear  of  anguish  or  a  smile — 
Thy  woes,  Arion  !  and  thy  simple  tale, 
O'er  all  the  heart  shall  triumph  and  prevail ! 


PLEASURES  OF  HOPE.  25 

Charmed  as  they  read  the  verse  too  sadly  true, 
How  gallant  Albert,  and  his  weary  crew, 
Heaved  all  their  guns,  their  foundering  bark  to 

save, 

And  toiled — and  shrieked — and  perished  on  the 
wave! 

Yes,  at  the  dead  of  night,  by  Lonna's  steep, 
The  seaman's  cry  was  heard  along  the  dee}) ; 
There  on  his  funeral  waters,  dark  and  wild, 
The  dying  father  blessed  his  darling  child  ! 
Oh  !  Mercy,  shield  her  innocence,  he  cried, 
Spent  on  the  prayer  his  bursting  heart,  and  died  ! 

Or  they  will  learn  how  generous  worth  sub- 
limes 

The  robber  Moor,  and  pleads  for  all  his  crimes  ! 
How  poor  Amelia  kissed,  with  many  a  tear, 
His  hand,  blood-stained,  but  ever,  ever  dear  ! 
Hung  on  the  tortured  bosom  of  her  Lord, 
And  wept  and  prayed  perdition  from  his  sword ! 
Nor  sought  in  vain !  at  that  heart-piercing  cry 
The  strings  of  Nature  cracked  with  agony  ! 
He,  with  delirious  laugh,  the  dagger  hurled, 
And  burst  the  ties  that  bound  him  to  the  world  ! 
Turn  from  his  dying  words,  that  smite  with  steel 
The  shuddering  thoughts,  or  wind  them  on  the 

wheel — 

Turn  to  the  gentler  melodies  that  suit 
Thalia's  harp,  or  Pan's  Arcadian  lute ; 
Or,  down  the  stream  of  Truth's  historic  page, 
From  clime  to  clime  descend,  from  age  to  age  ! 

Yet  there,  perhaps,  may  darker  scenes  obtrude 
Than  Fancy  fashions  in  her  wildest  mood ; 
There  shall  he  pause  with  horrent  brow,  to  rate 
What  millions  died — that  Caesar  might  bo  great ! 
Or  learn  the  fate  that  bleeding  thousands  bore, 
Marched  by   their   Charles  to   Dneiper's  swampy 

shore ; 

Faint  in  his  wounds,  and  shivering  in  the  blast, 
The  Swedish  soldier  sunk — and  groaned  his  last ! 
B 


2G  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE. 

File  after  file  the  stormy  showers  benumb, 
Freeze  every  standard-sheet,  and  hush  the  drum  ! 
Horseman  and  horse  confessed  the  bitter  pang, 
And  arms  and  warriors  fell  with  hollow  clang  ! 
Yet,  ere  he  sunk  in  Nature's  last  repose, 
Ere  life's  warm  torrent  to  the  fountain  froze, 
The  dying  man  to  Sweden  turned  his  eye, 
Thought  of  his  home,  and  closed  it  with  a  sigh ! 
Imperial  Pride  looked  sullen  on  his  plight, 
And  Charles  beheld — nor  shuddered  at  the  sight ! 

Above,  below,  in  Ocean,  Earth,  and  Sky. 
Thy  fairy  worlds,  Imagination,  lie, 
And  HOPE  attends,  companion  of  the  way, 
Thy  dream  by  night,  thy  visions  of  the  day  ! 
In  yonder  pensile  orb,  and  every  sphere 
That  gems  the  starry  girdle  of  the  year ; 
In  those  unmeasured  worlds,  she  bids  thee  tell, 
Pure  from  then-  God,  created  millions  dwell, 
Whose  names  and  natures,  unrevealed  below, 
We  yet  shall  learn,  and  wonder  as  we  know  ; 
For,  as  lona's  saint,  a  giant  form, 
Throned    on   her    towers,    conversing    with    the 

storm, 

(When  o'er  each  Runic  altar,  weed-entwined, 
The  vesper  clock  tolls  mournful  to  the  wind,) 
Counts  every  wave-worn  isle,  and  mountain  hoar, 
From  Kilda  to  the  green  lerne's  shore ; 
So,  when  thy  pure  and  renovated  mind 
This  perishable  dust  hath  left  behind, 
Thy  seraph  eye  shall  count  the  starry  train, 
Like  distant  isles  embosomed  in  the  main  ; 
Rapt  to  the  shrine  where  motion  first  began, 
And  light  and  life  in  mingling  torrent  ran  : 
From  whence  each  bright  rotundity  was  hurled, 
The  throne  of  God, — the  centre  of  the  world  ! 

Oh  !  vainly  wise,  the  moral  Muse  hath  sung 
That  suasive  HOPE  hath  but  a  Siren  tongue ! 
True  ;  she  may  sport  with  life's  untutored  day, 
Nor  heed  the  solace  of  its  last  decay, 


PLEASURES  OF  HOPE.  27 

The  guileless  heart  her  happy  mansion  spurn, 
And  part,  like  Ajut — never  to  return  ! 

But  yet,  methinks,  when  Wisdom  shall  assuage 
The  grief  and  passions  of  our  greener  age, 
Though  dull  the  close  of  life,  and  far  away 
Each  flower  that  hailed  the  dawning  of  the  day ; 
Yet  o'er  her  lovely  hopes,  that  once  were  dear, 
The  time-taught  spirit,  pensive,  not  severe, 
With  milder  griefs  her  aged  eye  shall  fill, 
And  weep  their  falsehood,  though  she  loves  tlicm 
still! 

Thus,  with  forgiving  tears,  and  reconciled, 
The  king  of  Jtidah  mourned  his  rebel  child  ! 
Musing  on  days,  when  yet  the  guiltless  boy 
Smiled  on  his  sire,  and  filled  his  heart  with  joy ! 
My  Absalom !  the  voice  of  Nature  cried, 
Oh  !  that  for  thee  thy  father  could  have  died  ! 
For  bloody  was  the  deed,  and  rashly  done, 
That  slow  my  Absalom ! — my  son  ! — my  son  ! 

Unfading  HOPE  !  when  life's  last  embers  bum, 
When  soul  to  soul,  and  dust  to  dust  return  ! 
Heaven  to  thy  charge  resigns  the  awful  hour ! 
Oh  !  then,  thy  kingdom  comes !  Immortal  Power ! 
What  though  each  spark  of  earth-born  rapture  fly 
The  quivering  lip,  pale  cheek,  and  closing  eye  ! 
Bright  to  the  soul  thy  seraph  hands  convey 
The  morning  dream  of  life's  eternal  day — 
Then,  then,  the  triumph  and  the  trance  begin, 
And  all  the  phrenix  spirit  burns  within  ! 

Oh !  deep-enchanting  prelude  to  repose, 
The  dawn  of  bliss,  the  twilight  of  our  woes  ! 
Yet  half  I  hear  the  panting  spirit  sigh, 
It  is  a  dread  and  awful  thing  to  die ! 
Mysterious  worlds,  untravelled  by  the  sun  ! 
Where  Time's  far-wandering  tide  has  never  run, 
From  your  unfathomed  shades,  and  viewless  spheres. 
A  warning  comes,  unheard  by  other  ears. 
'Tis  Heaven's  commanding  trumpet,  long  and  loud, 
JLike  Sinai's  thunder,  pealing  from  the  cloud ! 


PLEASURES  OF  HOPE. 

While  Xature  hears,  with  terror-mingled  trust, 
The  shock  that  hurls  her  fabric  to  the  dust ; 
And,  like  the  trembling  Hebrew,  when  he  trod 
The  roaring  waves,  and  called  upon  his  God, 
With  mortal  terrors  clouds  immortal  bliss, 
And  shrieks,  and  hovers  o'er  the  dark  abyss  ! 

Daughter  of  Faith,  awake,  arise,  illuinc 
The  dread  unknown,  the  chaos  of  the  tomb ; 
Melt,  and  dispel,  ye  spectre-doubts,  that  roll 
Cimmerian  darkness  o'er  the  parting  soul ! 
Fly,  like  the  moon-eyed  herald  of  Dismay, 
Chased  on  his  night-steed  by  the  star  of  day ! 
The  strife  is  o'er — the  pangs  of  Nature  close, 
And  life's  last  rapture  triumphs  o'er  her  woes. 
Hark !  as  the  spirit  eyes,  with  eagle  gaze, 
The  noon  of  Heaven  undazzled  by  the  blaze, 
On  heavenly  winds  that  waft  her  to  the  sl:y, 
Float  the  sweet  tones  of  star-born  melody  ; 
Wild  as  that  hallowed  anthem  sent  to  hall 
Bethlehem's  shepherds  in  the  lonely  vale, 
When  Jordan  hushed  his  waves,  and  midnight 

still 
Watched  on  the  holy  towers  of  Ziou  liiil ! 

Soul  of  the  just !  companion  of  the  dead  ! 
Where  is  thy  home,  and  whither  art  thou  lied  f 
Back  to  its  heavenly  source  thy  being  goes, 
Swift  as  the  comet  wheels  to  whence  he  rose- ; 
Doomed  on  his  airy  path  a  while  to  burn, 
And  doomed,  like  thee,  to  travel,  and  return. — 
Hark  !  from  the  world's  exploding  centre  driven, 
With  sounds  that  shook  the  firmament  of  Heaven, 
Careers  the  fiery  giant,  fast  and  far, 
On  bickering  wheels,  and  adamantine  car , 
From  planet  whirled  to  planet  more  remote, 
He  visits  realms  beyond  the  reach  of  thought , 
But  wheeling  homeward,  when  his  course  is  run, 
Curbs  the  red  yoke,  and  mingles  with  the  sun ! 
So  hath  the  traveller  of  earth  unfurled 
Her  trembling  wings,  emerging  from  the  world ; 


PLEASURES  OF  HOPE.  i# 

And  o'er  the  path  by  mortal  never  trod, 
Sprung  to  her  source,  the  bosom  of  her  God  ! 

Oh !  lives  there,  Heaven,  beneath  thy  dread  ex- 
panse, 

One  hopeless,  dark  idolater  of  Chance, 
Content  to  feed,  with  pleasures  unrefined, 
The  lukewarm  passions  of  a  lowly  mind ; 
Who,  mouldering  earthward,  'reft  of  every  trust, 
In  joyless  union  wedded  to  the  dust, 
Could  all  his  parting  energy  dismiss, 
And  call  this  barren  world  sufficient  bliss  ? — 
There  live,  alas !  of  heaven-directed  mien, 
Of  cultured  soul,  and  sapient  eye  serene, 
Who  hail  thee,  Man  !  the  pilgrim  of  a  day, 
Spouse  of  the  Avorm,  and  brother  of  the  clay, 
Frail  as  the  leaf  in  Autumn's  yellow  bower, 
Dust  in  the  wind,  or  dew  upon  the  flower; 
A  friendless  slave,  a  child  without  a  hire, 
"Whose  mortal  life  and  momentary  iire, 
Light  to  the  grave  his  chance-created  form, 
As  ocean-wrecks  illuminate  the  storm ; 
And,  when  the  gun's  tremendous  flash  i:>  o'er, 
To  night  and  silence  sink  for  evermore  ! — 

Are  these  the  pompous  tidings  ye  proclaim, 
Lights  of  the  world,  and  demi-gods  of  Fame  i 
Is  this  your  triumph — this  your  proud  applause, 
Children  of  Truth,  and  champions  of  her  cause  ? 
For  this  hath  Science  searched,  on  wear}-  whir;. 
By  shore  and  sea — each  mute  and  living  tiling  ! 
Launched  with  Iberia's  pilot  from  the  steep, 
To   worlds   unknown,   and  isles   beyond   the 

deep? 

Or  round  the  cope  her  living  chariot  driven, 
And  wheeled   in   triumph   through  the   signs   of 

Heaven. 

Oh !  star-eyed  Science,  hast  thou  wandered  there, 
To  waft  us  home  the  message  of  despair  ? 
Then  .bind  the  palm,  thy  sage's  brow  to  suit. 
Of  blasted  leaf,  and  death-distilling  fruit  J 


20  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE. 

Ah  me !  the  laurelled  wreath  that  Murder  rears, 
Blood-nursed,  and  watered  by  the  widow's  tears, 
Seems  not  so  foul,  so  tainted,  and  so  dread, 
As  waves  the  night-shade  round  the  sceptic  head. 
What  is  the  bigot's  torch,  the  tyrant's  chain  ? 
I  smile  on  death,  if  Heavenward  HOPE  remain  ! 
Bnt,  if  the  warring  winds  of  Nature's  strife 
Be  all  the  faithless  charter  of  my  life, 
If  Chance  awaked,  inexorable  power, 
This  frail  and  feverish  being  of  an  hour ; 
Doomed  o'er  the  world's  precarious  scene  to  sweep, 
Swift  as  the  tempest  travels  on  the  deep, 
To  know  Delight  but  by  her  parting  smile, 
And  toil,  and  wish,  and  weep  a  little  while ; 
Then  melt,  ye  elements,  that  formed  in  vain 
This  troubled  pulse,  and  visionary  brain  ! 
Fade,  ye  wild  flowers,  memorials  of  my  doom, 
And  sink,  ye  stars,  that  light  me  to  the  tomb  ! 
Truth,  ever  lovely, — since  the  world  began, 
The  foe  of  tyrants,  and  the  friend  of  man, — 
How  can  thy  words  from  balmy  slumber  start 
lleposing  Virtue  pillowed  on  the  heart ! 
Yet,  if  thy  voice  the  note  of  thunder  rolled, 
And  that  were  true  which  Nature  never  told, 
Let  Wisdom  smile  not  en  her  conquered  field  5 
No  rapture  dawns,  no  treasure  is  revealed  ! 
Oh  !  let  her  read,  nor  loudly,  nor  elate, 
The  doom  that  bars  us  from  a  better  fate  ; 
But,  sad  as  angels  for  the  good  man's  sin, 
A  Veep  to  record,  and  blush  to  give  it  in  ! 

And  well  may  Doubt,  the  mother  of  Dismay, 
Pause  at  her  martyr's  tomb,  and  read  the  lay. 
Down  by  the  wilds  of  yon  deserted  vale, 
Jt  darkly  hints  a  melancholy  tale  ! 
There  as  the  homeless  madman  sits  alone, 
In  hollow  winds  he  hears  a  spirit  moan  ! 
And  there,  they  say,  a  wizard  orgie  crowds, 
When  the  Moon   lights    her    watch-tower    in   the 
clouds. 


PLEASURES  OF  HOPE.  31 

Poor  lost  Alonzo  !     Fate's  neglected  child  ! 
Mild  be  the  doom  of  Heaven — as  thou  wert  mild ! 
For  oh  !  thy  heart  in  holy  mould  was  cast, 
And  all  thy  deeds  were  blameless,  but  the  last. 
Poor  lost  Alonzo !  still  I  seem  to  hear 
The  clod  that  struck  thy  hollow-sounding-  bier  ! 
When  Friendship  paid,  in  speechless  sorrow  drowned, 
Thy  midnight  rites,  but  not  on  hallowed  ground  ! 

Cease,  every  joy,  to  glimmer  on  my  mind, 
But  leave — oh !  leave  the  light  of  HOPE  behind  ! 
What  though  my  winged  hours  of  bliss  have  been, 
Like  angel-visits,  few  and  far  between, 
Her  musing  mood  shall  every  pang  appease. 
And  charm — when  pleasures  lose   the  power  to 

please ! 

Yes ;  let  each  rapture,  dear  to  Nature,  flee  : 
Close  not  the  light  of  Fortune's  stormy  sou — 
Mirth,  Music,  Friendship,  Love's  propitious  smile, 
Chase  every  care,  and  charm  a  little  while, 
Ecstatic  throbs  the  fluttering  heart  employ. 
And  all  her  strings  are  harmonized  to  joy  ! — 
But  why  so  short  is  Love's  delighted  hour  ? 
Why  fades  the  dew  on  Beauty's  sweetest  flower  ? 
Why  can  no  hymned  charm  of  music  heal 
The  sleepless  woes  impassioned  spirits  feel  ? 
Can  Fancy's  fairy  hands  no  veil  create, 
To  hide  the  sad  realities  of  fate  ? — 

No  !  not  the  quaint  remark,  the  sapient  rule, 
Nor  all  the  pride  of  Wisdom's  worldly  school, 
Have  power  to  soothe,  unaided  and  alone, 
The  heart  that  vibrates  to  a  feeling  tone ! 
When  stepdame  Nature  every  bliss  recalls, 
Fleet  as  the  meteor  o'er  the  desert  falls ; 
When,  'reft  of  all,  yon  widowed  sire  appears 
A  lonely  hermit  in  the  vale  of  years ; 
Say,  can  the  world  one  joyous  thought  bestow 
To  Friendship,  weeping  at  the  couch  of  Woe  ? 
No !  but  a  brighter  soothes  the  last  adieu, — 
Souls  of  impassioned  mould,  she  sneaks  to  YOU  ! 


5  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE. 

Weep  not,  she  says,  at  Nature's  transient  pain, 
Congenial  spirits  part  to  meet  again ! 

What  plaintive  sobs  thy  filial  spirit  drew, 
What  sorrow  choked  thy  long  and  last  adieu ! 
Daughter  of  Conrad  f  when  he  heard  his  knell, 
And  bade  his  country  and  his  child  farewell, 
Doomed  the  long  aisles  of  Sydney-cove  to  see, 
The  martyr  of  his  crimes,  but  true  to  thee  ? 
Tlirice  the  sad  father  tore  thee  from  his  heart, 
And  thrice  returned,  to  bless  thee,  and  to  part ; 
Thrice  from  his  trembling  lips  he  mminured  low 
The  plaint  that  owned  unutterable  woe ; 
Till  Faith,  prevailing  o'er  his  sullen  doom, 
As  bursts  the  morn  on  night's  unfathomed  gloom, 
Lured  his  dim  eye  to  deathless  hopes  sublime, 
Beyond  the  realms  of  Nature  and  of  Time ! 

"  And  weep  not  thus,"  he  cried,  "  young  Elle- 

nore, 

My  bosom  bleeds,  but  soon  shall  bleed  no  more ! 
Short  shall  this  half-extinguished  spirit  burn, 
And  soon  these  limbs  to  kindred  dust  return ! 
But  not,  my  child,  with  life's  precarious  fire, 
The  immortal  ties  of  Nature  shall  expire ; 
These  shall  resist  the  triumph  of  decay, 
When  time  is  o'er,  and  worlds  have  passed  away! 
Cold  in  the  dust  this  perished  heart  may  lie, 
But  that  which  wanned  it  once  shall  never  die ! 
That  spark  unburied  in  its  mortal  frame, 
With  living  light,  eternal,  and  the  same, 
Shall  beam  on  Joy's  interminable  years, 
Unveiled. by  darkness — unassuaged  by  tears ! 

"  Yet,  on  the  barren  shore  and  stormy  deep, 
One  tedious  watch  is  Conrad  doomed  to  weep  j 
But  when  I  gain  the  home  without  a  friend,    . 
And  press  the  uneasy  couch  were  none  attend, 
This  last  embrace,  still  cherished  in  my  heart, 
Shall  calm  the  struggling  spirit  ere  it  part ! 
Thy  darling  form  shall  seem  to  hover  nigh, 
And  hush  the  groan  of  life's  last  agony ! 


PLEASURES  OF  HOPE. 

"Farewell!  when  stranger's  lift  thy  father's  bier, 
And  place  my  nameless  stone  without  a  tear ; 
When  each  returning  pledge  hath  told  my  child 
That  Conrad's  tomb  is  on  the  desert  piled ; 
And  when  the  dream  of  troubled  Fancy  sees 
Its  lonely  rank  grass  waving  in  the  breeze ; 
Who  then  will  soothe  thy  grief,  when  mine  is  o'er  ? 
Who  will  protect  thee,  helpless  Ellenore  ? 
Shall  secret  scenes  thy  filial  sorrows  hide, 
Scorned  by  the  world,  to  factious  guilt  allied  ? 
Ah !  no  ;  methinks  the  generous  and  the  good 
Will  woo  thee  from  the  shades  of  solitude ! 
O'er  friendless  grief  Compassion  shall  awake, 
And  smile  on  innocence,  for  Mercy's  sake !'' 

Inspiring  thought  of  rapture  yet  to  be, 
The  tears  of  Love  were  hopeless,  but  for  thee  J 
If  in  that  frame  no  deathless  spirit  dwell, 
If  that  faint  murmur  be  the  last  farewell, 
If  Fate  unite  the  faithful  but  to  part, 
Why  is  then:  memoiy  sacred  to  the  heart '? 
Why  does  the  brother  of  my  childhood  seem 
Restored  a  while  in  every  pleasing  dream  ? 
Why  do  I  joy  the  lonely  spot  to  view, 
By  artless  friendship  blessed  when  life  was  new  ? 

Eternal  HOPE  !  when  yonder  spheres  sublime 
Pealed  their  first  notes  to  sound  the  march  of  Time, 
Thy  joyous  youth  began — but  not  to  fade. — 
When  all  the  sister  planets  have  decayed  j 
When  wrapt  in  fire  the  realms  of  ether  glow, 
And  Heaven's  last  thunder  shakes  the  world  below ; 
Thou,  undismayed,  shalt  o'er  the  ruins  smile, 
And  light  thy  torch  at  Nature's  funeral  pile, 
B* 


THEODRIC, 


A    DOMESTIC    TALE, 


'T  tvAS  sunset,  and  tlie  Ranz  des  Vaches  was  sung, 
And  lights  were  o'er  th'  Helvetian  mountains  flung, 
That  gave  the  glacier  tops  their  richest  glow, 
And  tinged  the  lakes  like  molten  gold  below ; 
Warmth  flushed  the  wonted  regions  of  the  storm, 
Where,  Phoenix-like,  you  saw  the  eagle's  form 
That  high  in  Heaven's  vermilion  wheeled  and  soared, 
Woods   nearer  frowned,  and  cataracts  dashed  and 

roared 

From  heights  browsed  by  the  bounding  bouquetin  ; 
Herds  tinkling  roamed  the  long-drawn  vales  between, 
And  hamlets  glittered  white,  and  gardens  flourished 

green: 

'T  was  transport  to  inhale  the  bright  sweet  air ! 
The  mountain-bee  was  revelling  in  its  glare, 
And  roving  with  his  minstrelsy  across 
The  scented  wild  weeds,  and  enamelled  moss. 
Earth's  features  so  harmoniously  were  linked, 
She  seemed  one  great  glad  form,  with  life  instinct, 
That  felt  Heaven's  ardent  breath,  and  smiled  below 
Its  flush  of  love,  with  consentaneous  glow. 
A  Gothic  church  was  near ;  the  spot  around 
Was  beautiful,  even  though  sepulchral  ground ; 
For  there  nor  yew  nor  cypress  spread  their  gloom, 
Ij'.it  roses  blossomed  by  each  rustic  tomb. 
Amidst  them  one  of  spotless  marble  shone — 
A  maiden's  grave — and  'twas  inscribed  thereon, 


THEODRIC.  P,3 

That  young  and  loved  she  died  whose  dust  was 
there : 

"  Yes/'  said  my  comrade,  "  young  she  died,  and 

fair ! 

Grace  formed  her,  and  the  soul  of  gladness  played 
Once  in  the  blue  eyes  of  that  mountain-maid  : 
Her  fingers  witched  the  chords  they  passed  along, 
And  her  lips  seemed  to  kiss  tha  soul  in  song : 
Yet  wooed,  and  worshipped  as  she  was,  till  i<j-,y 
Aspired  to  hope,  't  was  sadly,  strangely  true. 
That  heart,  the  martyr  of  its  fondness,  burnc.l 
And  died  of  love  that  could  not  be  returned. 

Her  father  dwelt  where  yonder  Castle  shine:.; 
O'er  clustering  trees  and  terrace-mantling  vine.; : 
As  gay  as  ever,  the  laburnum's  pride 
Waves   o'er  each   walk   where   she   was   won:    to 

glide,— 

And  still  the  garden  whence  she  graced  her  bro\v, 
As  lovely  blooms,  though  trode  by  strangers  now. 
How  oft,  from  yonder  window  o'er  the  lake, 
Her  song  of  wild  Helvetian  ^well  and  shake 
Has  made  the  rudest  fisher  bend  his  ear, 
And  rest  enchanted  on  his  oar  to  hear ! 
Thus  bright,  accomplished,  spirited,  and  bland, 
Well-born,  and  wealthy  for  that  simple  land, 
Why  had  no  gallant  native  youth  the  art 
To  win  so  warm — so  exquisite  a  heart  ? 
She,  'midst  these  rocks  inspired  with  feelings  strong 
By  mountain-freedom — music — fancy — song, 
Herself  descended  from  the  brave  in  arms, 
And  conscious  of  romance-inspiring  charms, 
Dreamt  of  Heroic  beings ;  hoped  to  find 
Some  extant  spirit  of  chivalric  kind ; 
And  scorning  wealth,  looked  cold  even  on  the  claim 
Of  manly  worth,  that  lacked  the  wreath  of  fame. 

Her  younger  brother,  sixteen  summers  old, 
And  much  her  likeness  both  in  mind  and  mould, 
Had  gone,  poor  boy !  in  soldiership  to  shine, 
And  bore  au  Austrian  banner  on  the  Rhine. 


THEODRIC. 

;T  was  when,  alas !  our  Empire's  evil  star 
Shed  all  the  plagues,  without  the  pride  of  war ; 
When  patriots  bled,  and  bitterer  anguish  crossed 
Our  brave,  to  die  in  battles  foully  lost. 
The  youth  wrote  home  the  rout  of  many  a  day ; 
Yet  still  he  said,  and  still  with  truth  could  say, 
One  corps  had  ever  made  a  valiant  stand, — 
The   corps   in    which   he   served, — THEODRIC'S 

band. 

His  fame,  forgotten  chief !  is  now  gone  by, 
Eclipsed  by  brighter  orbs  in  Glory's  sky ; 
Yet  once  it  shone,  and  veterans,  when  they  show 
Our  fic-lds  of  battle  twenty  years  ago, 
Will  tell  you  feats  his  small  brigade  performed, 
In  charges  nobly  faced  and  trenches  stormed. 
Time  was,  when  songs  were  chanted  to  his  fame, 
And  soldiers  loved  the  march  that  bore  his  name. 
The  zeal  of  martial  hearts  was  at  his  call, 
And  that  Helvetian's,  UDOLPH'S,  most  of  all. 
'T  was  touching,  when  the  storm  of  Avar  blew  wild, 
To  see  a  blooming  boy, — almost  a  child, — 
Spur  fearless  at  his  leader's  words  and  signs, 
Brave  death  in  reconnoitring  hostile  lines, 
And  speed  each  task,  and  tell  each  message  clear, 
In  scenes  where  war-trained  men  were  stunned  wilh 

fear. 

THEODRIC  praised  him,  and  they  wept  for  joy 
In  yonder  house, — when  letters  from  the  boy 
Thanked   Heaven  for  life,  and  more,  to  use  his 

phrase, 

Than  twenty  lives — his  own  Commander's  praise. 
Then  followed  glowing  pages,  blazoning  forth 
The  fancied  image  of  his  leader's  worth, 
With  such  hyperboles  of  youthful  style 
As  made  his  parents  dry  their  tears  and  smile : 
But  differently  far  his  words  impressed 
A  wondering  sister's  wrell-believing  breast : — 
She  caught  th'  illusion,  blessed  THEODRIC'S  name, 
And  wildly  magnified  his  worth  and  fame  , 


THEODRIC.  37 

Hejoicing  life's  reality  contained 

One,  heretofore,  her  fancy  had  but  feigned, 

Whose  love  could  make  her  proud! — and  time  and 

chance 
To  passion  raised  that  day-dream  of  Romance. 

Once,  when  with  hasty  charge  of  horse  and  inau 
Our  arriere-guard  had  checked  the  Gallic  van, 
THEODRIC,  visiting  the  outposts,  found 
His  UDOLPH  wounded,  weltering  on  the  ground : 
Sore  crushed, — half-swooning,  half-upraised  he  lay, 
And   bent  his  brow,   fair  boy!    and  grasped  the 

clay. 

His  fate  moved  even  the  common  soldier's  ruth — 
THEODRIC  succoured  him ;  nor  left  the  youth 
To  vulgar  hands,  but  brought  him  to  his  tent, 
And  lent  what  aid  a  brother  would  have  lent. 

Meanwhile,  to  save  his  kindred  half  the  smart 
The  war-gazette's  dread  blood-roll  might  impart, 
He  wrote  th7  event  to  them  j  and  soon  could  tell 
Of  pains  assuaged  and  symptoms  auguring  well ; 
And  last  of  all,  prognosticating  cure, 
Enclosed  the  leech's  vouching  signature. 
Their  answers,  on  whose  pages  you  might  note 
That  tears  had  fallen,  whilst  trembling  fingers  wrote, 
Gave  boundless  thanks  for  benefits  conferred, 
Of  which  the  boy,  in  secret,  sent  them  word, 
Whose  memory  Time,  they  said,  would  never  blot  j 
But  which  the  giver  had  himself  forgot. 

In  time,  the  stripling,  vigorous  and  healed, 
Resumed  his  barb  and  banner  in  the  field, 
And  bore  himself  right  soldier-like,  till  now 
The  third  campaign  had  manlier  bronzed  his  brow, 
When    peace,    though    but    a    scanty  pause  for 

breath, — 

A  curtain-drop  between  the  acts  of  death,— 
A  check  in  frantic  war's  unfinished  game, 
Yet  dearly  bought,  and  direly  welcome,  came. 
The  camp  broke  up,  and  UDOLPH  left  his  chief 
As  with  a  son's  or  younger  brother's  grief; 


38  THEODEIC. 

But  journeying  home,  how  rapt  his  spirits  rose  ! 
How  light  his  footsteps  crashed  St.  Gothard's  snows ; 
How  dear  seemed  even  the  waste  and  wild  Slireck- 

honi, 

Though  wrapt  in  clouds,  and  frowning  as  in  scoru 
Upon  a  downward  world  of  pastoral  charms  j 
Where,  by  the  very  smell  of  dairy-farms, 
And  fragrance  from  the  mountain-herbage  blown, 
Blindfold  his  native  hills  he  could  have  known  ! 

His  coming  down  yon  lake, — his  boat  in  view 
Of  windows  where  love's  fluttering  kerchief  flew, — 
The    arms    spread   out  for    him  —  the    tears   that 

burst, — 

('T  was  JULIA'S,  't  was  his  sister's,  met  him  first :) 
Their  pride  to  see  war's  medal  at  his  breast, 
And  all  their  rapture's  greeting,  may  be  guessed. 

Ere  long,  his  bosom  triumphed  to  unfold 
A  gift  he  meant,  their  gayest  room  to  hold, — 
The  picture  of  a  friend  in  warlike  dress  ; 
And  who  it  was  he  first  bade  JULIA  guess. 
'  Yes/  she  replied,  '  't  was  he  methought  in  sleep, 
When  you  were  wounded,  told  me  not  to  weep.' 
The  painting  long  in  that  sweet  mansion  drew 
Regards  its  living  semblance  little  knew. 

Meanwhile  THEODKIC,  who  had  years  before 
Learnt  England's  tongue,  and  loved  her  classic  lore, 
A  glad  enthusiast  now  explored  the  land, 
Where  Nature,  Freedom,  Art,  smile  hand  in  hand ; 
Her  women  fan- ;  her  men  robust  for  toil ; 
Her  vigorous  souls,  high-cultured  as  her  soil ; 
Her  towns,  where  civic  independence  flings 
The  gauntlet  down  to  senates,  courts,  and  kings ; 
Her  works  of  art,  resembling  magic's  powers  ; 
Her  mighty  fleets,   and  learning's  beauteous  bow- 
ers,— 

These  he  had  visited,  with  wonder's  smile, 
And  scarce  endured  to  quit  so  fab:  an  isle. 
But  how  our  fates  from  unmomentous  tilings 
May  rise,  like  rivers  out  of  little  springs  ! 


THEODRIC.  3? 

.A  trivial  chance  postponed  his  parting  day, 

And  public  tidings  caused,  in  that  delay, 

An  English  Jubilee.     'T  was  a  glorious  sight ! 

At  eve  stupenduous  London,  clad  in  light, 

Poured  out  triumphant  multitudes  to  gaze ; 

Youth,  age,  wealth,  penury,  smiling  in  the  blaze ; 

Th'  illumined  atmosphere  was  warm  and  bland, 

And  Beauty's  groups,  the  fairest  of  the  land, 

Conspicious,  as  in  some  wide  festive  room, 

In  open  chariots  passed  with  pearl  and  plume. 

Amidst  them  he  remarked  a  lovlier  mien 

Than  e'er  his  thoughts  had  shaped,  or  eyes  had  seen 

The  throng  detained  her  till  he  reined  his  steed, 

And,  ere  the  beauty  passed,  had  time  to  read 

The  motto  and  the  arms  her  carriage  bore. 

Led  by  that  clue,  he  left  not  England's  shore 

Till  he  had  known  her ;  and  to  know  her  Avell 

Prolonged,  exalted,  bound,  enchantment's  spell; 

For  with  affections  warm,  intense,  refined, 

She  mixed  such  calm  and  holy  strength  of  mind, 

That,  like  Heaven's  image  in  the  smiling  brook, 

Celestial  peace  was  pictured  in  her  look. 

Hers  was  the  brow,  in  trials  unperplexed, 

That  cheered  the  sad,  and  tranquillized  the  vexed ; 

She  studied  not  the  meanest  to  eclipse, 

And  yet  the  wisest  listened  to  her  lips ; 

She  sang  not,  knew  not  Music's  magic  skill, 

But  yet  her  voice  had  tones  that  swayed  the  will. 

He  sought — he  won  her — and  resolved  to  make 

His  future  home  in  England  for  her  sake. 

Yet,  ere  they  wedded,  matters  of  concern 
To  CESAR'S  Court  commanded  his  return, 
A  season's  space, — and  on  his  Alpine  way, — 
He  reached  those  bowers,  that  rang  with  joy  tliat 

day: 

The  boy  was  half  beside  himself, — the  sire, 
All  frankness,  honor,  and  Helvetian  fire, 
Of  speedy  parting  would  not  hear  him  speak ; 
And  tears  bedewed  and  brightened  JULIA'S  checli. 


40  THEODRIC. 

Thus,  loth  to  wound  their  hospitable  pride, 
A  month  he  promised  with  them  to  abide  ; 
As  blithe  he  trod  the  mountain-sward  as  they, 
And  felt  his  joy  make  even  the  young  more  gay. 
How  jocund  was  their  breakfast-parlor  fanned, 
By  yon  blue  water's  breath, — their  walks  how 

bland! 

Fair  JULIA,  seemed  her  brother's  softened  sprite — 
A  gem  reflecting  Nature's  purest  light, — 
And  with  her  graceful  wit  there  was  inwrought 
A  wildly  sweet  unworldliness  of  thought, 
That  almost  child-like  to  his  kindness  drew, 
And  twin  with  UDOLPH  in  his  friendship  grew. 
But  did  his  thoughts  to  love  one  moment  range  ? — 
No!    he  who  had  loved  CONSTANCE  could  not 

change ! 

Besides,  till  grief  betrayed  her  undesigned, 
Th;  unlikely  thought  could  scarcely  reach  his  mind, 
That  eyes  so  young  on  years  like  his  should  beam 
Unwooed  devotion  back  for  pure  esteem. 

True  she  sang  to  his  very  soul,  and  brought 
Those  trains  before  him  of  luxuriant  thought, 
"Which  only  Music's  heaven-born  art  can  bring, 
To  sweep  across  the  mind  with  angel  wing. 
Once,  as  he  smiled  amidst  that  waking  trance, 
She  paused  o'ercome,   he   thought    it    might    be 

chance, 

And,  when  his  first  suspicions  dimly  stole, 
Rebuked  them  back  like  phantoms  from  his  soul 
But  when  he  saw  his  caution  give  her  pain, 
And  kindness  brought  suspense's  rack  again, 
Faith,  honor,  friendship,  bound  him  to  unmask 
Truths  which  her  timid  fondness  feared  to  ask. 

And  yet  with  gracefully  ingenuous  power 
Her  spirit  met  th'  explanatory  hour ; — 
Ev'n  conscious  beauty  brightened  in  her  eyes, 
That  told  she  knew  their  love  no  vulgar  prize ; 
And  pride  like  that  of  one  more  woman-grown, 
Enlarged  her  mien,  enrjclied  her  voice's  tone. 


THEODK1C.  -11 

7T  was  then  she  struck  the  keys,  and  music  ma*1..- 
That  mocked  all  skill  her  hand  had  e'er  displayed. 
Inspired  and  warbling,  rapt  from  things  around, 
She  looked  the  very  Muse  of  magic  sound, 
Painting  in  sound  the  forms  of  joy  and  woe, 
Until  the  mind'8  eye  saw  them  melt  and  glow. 
Her  closing  strain  composed  and  calm  she  played, 
And  sang  no  words  to  give  its  pathos  aid ; 
But  grief  seemed  lingering  in  its  lengthened  swell,. 
And  like  so  many  tears  the  trickling  touches  fell. 
Of  CONSTANCE  then  she  heard  THEODKIC  speak, 
And  steadfast  smoothness  still  possessed  her  cheek. 
But  when  he  told  her  how  he  oft  had  plann'd 
Of  old  a  journey  to  their  mountain-land, 
That  might  have  brought  him  hither  years  before, 
'Ah!  then/  she  cried,  *  you  knew  not  England's  shore ! 
And  had  you  come, — and  wherefore  did  you  not  ?' 
'  Yes,'  he  replied,  '  it  would  have  changed  our  lot !' 
Then  burst  her  tears   through  pride's   restraining 

bands, 

And  with  her  handkerchief,  and  both  her  hands, 
She  hid  her  voice  and  wept. — Contrition  stung 
THEODRIG  for  the  tears  his  words  had  wrung. 
*  But  no/  she  cried,  *  unsay  not  what  you  've  said, 
Nor  grudge  one  prop  on  which  my  pride  is  stayed ; 
To  think  I  could  have  merited  your  faith 
Shall  be  my  solace  even  unto  death !' 
MULIA,'  THEODRIC  said,  with  purposed  look 
Of  firmness,  '  my  reply  deserved  rebuke ; 
But  by  your  pure  and  sacred  peace  of  mind, 
And  by  the  dignity  of  womankind, 
Swear  that  when  I  am  gone  you  '11  do  your  best 
To  chase  this  dream  of  fondness  from  your  breast/ 

Th'  abrupt  appeal  electrified  her  thought ; — 
She  looked  to  Heav'n  as  if  its  aid  she  sought, 
Dried  hastily  the  tear-drops  from  her  cheek, 
And  signified  the  vow  she  could  not  speak. 

Ere  long  he  communed  with  her  mother  mild : 
'Alas !'   she  said,  '  I  warned— conjured  my  cliild, 


42  THEODKIC. 

And  grieved  for  this  affection  from  the  first, 

But  like  fatality  it  has  been  nursed ; 

For  when  her  filled  eyes  on  your  picture  fixed, 

And  when  your  name  in  all  she  spoke  was  mixed, 

'T  was  hard  to  chide  an  over-grateful  mind ! 

Then  each  attempt  a  likelier  choice  to  find 

Made  only  fresh-rejected  suitors  grieve, 

And  UDOLPH'S  pride — perhaps  her  own — believe 

That,  could  she  meet,  she  might  enchant  even  you. 

You  came. — I  augured  the  event,  'tis  true, 

But  how  was  UDOLPH'S  mother  to  exclude 

The  guest  that  claimed  our  boundless  gratitude  ? 

And  that  unconscious  you  had  cast  a  spell 

On  JULIA'S  peace,  my  pride  refused  to  tell : 

Yet  in  my  child's  illusion  I  have  seen, 

Believe  me  well,  how  blameless  you  have  been  : 

!Nor  can  it  cancel,  howsoe'er  it  end, 

Our  debt  of  friendship  to  our  boy's  best  friend.' 

At  night  he  parted  with  the  aged  pair ; 

At  early  morn  rose  JULIA  to  prepare 

The  last  repast  her  hands  for  him  should  make : 

And  UDOLPH  to  convoy  him  o'er  the  lake. 

The  parting  was  to  her  such  bitter  grief, 

That  of  her  own  accord  she  made  it  brief; 

But,  lingering  at  her  window,  long  sun-eyed 

His  boat's  last  glimpses  melting  into  shade. 

THEODRIC  sped  to  Austria,  and  achieved 
His  journey's  object.     Much  was  he  relieved 
When  UDOLPH'S  letters  told  that  JULIA'S  rmr.il 
Had  borne  his  loss,  firm,  tranquil,  and  resirncd. 
He  took  the  Rhenish  route  to  England,  high 
Elate  with  hopes,  fulfilled  their  ecstasy, 
And  interchanged  with  CONSTANCE'S  own  br;  a;h 
The  sweet,  eternal  vows  that  bound  their  faith. 

To  paint  that  being  to  a  grovelling  mind 
Were  like  portraying  pictures  to  the  blind. 
'T  was  needful  even  infectiously  to  feel 
Her  temper's  fond  and  firm  and  gladsome  zeal, 


THEODRIC.  4:5 

To  share  existence  with  her,  and  to  gain 

Sparks  from  her  love's  electrifying1  chain 

Of  that  pure  pride,  which,  lessening  to  her  breast 

Life's  ills,  gave  all  its  joys  a  treble  zest, 

Before  the  mind  completely  understood 

That  mighty  truth — how  happy  are  the  good ! 

Even  when  her  light  Torsook  him,  it  bequeathed 
Ennobling  sorrow ;  and  her  memory  breathed 
A  sweetness  that  survived  her  living  days, 
As  odorous  scents  outlast  the  censor's  blaze. 

Or,  if  a  trouble  dimmed  their  golden  joy, 
7T  was  outward  dross,  and  not  infused  alloy : 
Their  home  knew  but  affection's  looks  and  speech— 
A  little  Heaven,  above  dissension's  reach. 
But  'midst  her  kindred  there  was  strife  and  gall ; 
Save  one  congenial  sister,  they  were  all 
Such  foils  to  her  bright  intellect  and  grace, 
As  if  she  had  engrossed  the  virtue  of  her  race. 
Her  nature  strove  th'  unnatural  feuds  to  heal, 
Her  wisdom  made  the  weak  to  her  appeal ; 
And,  though  the  wounds  she  cured  were  soon  un- 
closed, 
Unwearied  still  her  kindness  interposed. 

Oft  on  those  errands  though  she  went  in  vain, 
And  home,  a  blank  without  her,  gave  him  pain. 
He  bore  her  absence  for  its  pious  end. — 
But  public  grief  his  spirit  came  to  bend ; 
For  Avar  laid  waste  his  native  land  once  more, 
And  German  honor  bled  at  every  pore. 
Oh  !  were  he  there,  he  thought,  to  rally  back 
One  broken  band,  or  perish  in  the  wrack . 
Nor  think  that  CONSTANCE  sought  to  move  and  molt 
His  purpose ;  like  herself  she  spoke  and  felt : — 
t  Your  fame  is  mine,  and  I  will  bear  all  woe 
Except  its  loss ! — but  with  you  let  me  go 
To  arm  you  for,  to  embrace  you  from,  the  fight ; 
Harm  will  not  reach  me — hazards  will  delight ! ' 
He  knew  those  hazards  better ;  one  campaign 
In  England  he  conjured  her  to  remain, 


44  THEODRIC. 

And  she  expressed  assent,  although  her  heart 
In  secret  had  resolved  tliey  should  not  part. 

How  oft  the  wisest  on  misfortune's  shelves 
Are  wrecked  by  errors  most  unlike  themselves  ? 
That  little  fault,  that  fraud  of  love's  romance, 
That  plan's  concealment,  wrought  their  whole  mis- 
chance. 

He  knew  it  not  preparing  to  embark, 
But  felt  extinct  his  comfort's  latest  spark, 
When,  'midst  those  numbered  days,  she  made  repair 
Again  to  kindred  worthless  of  her  care. 
'T  is  true  she  said  the  tidings  she  would  write 
Would  make  her  absence  on  his  heart  sit  light  j 
But,  haplessly,  revealed  not  yet  her  plan, 
And  left  him  in  his  home  a  lonely  man. 

Thus   damped  in   thoughts,  he  mused  upon  the 

past  : 

T  was  long  since  he  had  heard  from  UDOLPH  last, 
And  deep  misgivings  on  his  spirit  fell 
That  all  with  UDOLPH'S  household  was  not  well. 
"T  was  that  too  true  prophetic  mood  of  fear 
That  augurs  griefs  inevitably  near, 
Yet  makes  them  not  less  startling  to  the  rr>5ncl 
WThen  come.     Least  looked-for  then  of  human  kind 
His  UDOLPH  ('t  was,  he  thought  at  first,  his  sprite,) 
With  mournful  joy  that  mom  surprised  his  sight. 
How  changed  was  UDOLPH  !     Scarce  THEODRIC 

durst 

Inquire  his  tidings, — he  revealed  the  worst. 
'  At  first,'  he  said,  '  as  JULIA  bade  me  tell, 
She  bore  her  fate  high-mindedly  and  well, 
Resolved  from  common  eyes  her  grief  to  hide, 
And  from  the  world's  compassion  saved  our  pride. 
But  still  her  health  gave  way  to  secret  woe, 
And  long  she  pined — for  broken  hearts  die  slow  ! 
Her  reason  went,  but  came  returning,  like 
The  warning  of  her  death-hour — soon  to  strike  ; 
And  all  for  which  she  now,  poor  sufferer !  sighs, 
Is  once  to  see  THEODRIC  ere  she  dies. 


THI:CDKIC.  -::> 

Yfhy  should  I  come  to  tell  you  this  caprice  ? 

Forgive  me  !  for  my  mind  has  lost  its  peace. 

I  blame  myself,  and  ne'er  shall  cease  to  blame. 

That  my  insane  ambition  for  the  name 

Of  brother  to  THEODRIC,  founded  all 

Those  high-built  hopes  that  crushed  her  bv  tht-ir 

fall. 

I  made  her  slight  her  mother's  counsel  sage, 
But  now  my  parents  droop  with  grief  and  a<_r : 
And,  though  my  sister's  eyes  mean  no  rebuke, 
They  overwhelm  me  with  their  dying  look. 
The  journey  's  long,  but  you  are  full  of  ru;!i ; 
And  she  who   shares   your  heart,  and   knov.s    it:; 

truth, 

Has  faith  in  your  affection,  far  above 
Tli3  fear  of  a  poor  dying  object's  love.' — 
'  She  has,  my  U DOLPH,'  he  replied,  '  't  is  true  ; 
And  oft  we  talk  of  JULIA — oft  of  you.' 
Their  converse  came  abruptly  to  a  close ; 
For  scarce  could  each  his  troubled  looks  conr> u?T 
When  visitants,  to  CONSTANCE  near  akin, 
(In  all  but  traits  of  soul,)  were  ushered  in. 
They   brought   not   her,    nor   'midst   their  Lh.vLvd 

band 

The  sister  who  alone,  like  her,  was  bland ; 
But  said — and  smiled  to  see  it  gave  him  pal:: — 
That  CONSTANCE  would  a  fortnight  yet  mrua:;. 
Vexed  by  their  tidings,  and  the  haughty  view 
They  cast  on  UDOLPH  as  the  youth  withdrew, 
THEODRIC  blamed  his  CONSTANCE'S  intent. — 
The  demons  went,  and  left  him  as  they  went 
To  read,  when  they  were  gone  beyond  recall, 
A  note  from  her  loved  hand  explaining  all. 
She  said,  that  with  their  house  she  only  staid 
That  parting  peace  might  with  them  all  be  made ; 
But  prayed  for  leave  to  share  his  foreign  life, 
And  shun  all  future  chance  of  kindred  strife. 
Us  wrote  with  sjx'ed,  his  soul's  consent  to  Fay : 
Th'j  letter  missed  her  on  her  homeward  way 


4o  THEODRIC. 

In  six  hours  CONSTANCE  was  within  his  arms : 
Moved,  flushed,  unlike  her  wonted  calm  of  charms. 
And  breathless — with  uplifted  hands  outspread — 
Burst  into  tears  upon  his  neck,  and  said, — 
'I  knew  that  those   who   brought   your  message 

laughed, 

With  poison  of  then:  own  to  point  the  shaft ; 
And  this  my  one  kind  sister  thought,  yet  loth 
Confessed  she  feared  'twas  true  you  had  beem 

wroth. 

But  here  you  are,  and  smile  on  me  :  my  pain 
Is  gone,  and  CONSTANCE  is  herself  again.' 
His  ecstasy,  it  may  be  guessed,  was  much  : 
Yet  pain's  extreme   and    pleasure's    seemed    t» 

touch. 

What  pride !  embracing  beauty's  perfect  mould ; 
What  terror !  lest  his  few  rash  words  mistold 
Had  agonized  her  pulse  to  fever's  heat : 
But  calmed  again  so  soon  it  healthful  beat, 
And  such  sweet  tones  were  in  her  voice's  sound, 
Composed  herself,  she  breathed  composure  round. 

Fair  being !  with  what  sympathetic  grace 
She  heard,  bewailed,  and  pleaded  JULIA'S  case  j 
Implored  he  would  her  dying  wish  attend, 
1  And  go,'  she  said,  '  to-morrow  with  your  friend  ; 
I  '11  wait  for  your  return  on  England's  shore, 
And  then  we  '11  cross  the  deep,  and  part  no  more.' 

To-morrow  both  his  soul's  compassion  drew 
To  JULIA'S  call,  and  CONSTANCE  urged  anew 
That  not  to  heed  her  now  would  be  to  bind 
A  load  of  pain  for  life  upon  his  mind. 
He  went  with    UDOLPH — from    his    CONSTANCE 

wenfr— 

Stifling,  alas !  a  dark  presentiment 
Some  ailment  lurked,  eVn  whilst  she  smiled,  to 

mock 

Hi's  fears  of  harm  from  yester-morning's  shock. 
Meanwhile  a  faithful  page  he  singled  out, 
To  watch  at  home,  and  follow  straight  his  route, 


THRODRIC.  47 

If  aught  of  threatened    change  her  health   should 

show.  . 

— With   UDOLPH   then   he   reached  the   house   of 
woe. 

That  winter's  eve,  how  darkly  Nature's  brow 
Scowled  on  the  scenes  it  lights  so  lovely  now ! 
The  tempest,  raging  o'er  the  realms  of  ice, 
Shook  fragments  from  the  rifted  precipice  ; 
And,  whilst  their  falling  echoed  to  the  wind, 
The  wolfs  long  howl  in  dismal  discord  joined. 
While  white  yon  water's  foam  was  raised  in  clouds 
That  whirled  like  spirits  wailing  in  their  shrouds  : 
Without  was  Nature's  elemental  din — 
And  beauty  died,  and  friendship  wept,  within ! 

Sweet  JULIA,  though  her  fate  was  finished  hall', 
Still  knew  him — smiled  on  him  with  feeble  laugh — 
And  blessed  him,  till  she  drew  her  latest  sigh  ! 
But  lo  !  while  U  DOLPH'S  bursts  of  agony, 
And  age's  tremulous  wailings,  round  him  rose, 
What  accents  pierced  him  deeper  yet  than  those ! 
'T  was  tidings,  by  his  English  messenger, 
Of  CONSTANCE — brief  and  terrible  they  were. 
She  still  was  living  when  the  page  set  out 
From  home,  but  whether  now  was  left  in  doubt. 
Poor  JULIA  !  saw  he  then  thy  death's  relief — 
Stunned  into  stupor  more  than  wrung  with  grief  ? 
It  was  not  strange  ;  for  in  the  human  breast 
Two  master  passions  cannot  coexist, 
And  that  alarm  w"hich  now  usurped  his  bruin 
Shut  out  not  only  peace,  but  other  pain. 
'T  was  fancying  CONSTANCE  underneath  the  shroud 
That  covered  JULIA  made  him  first  weep  loud, 
And  tear  himself  away  from  them  that  wept. 
Fast  hurrying  homeward,  night  nor  day  ho  slept, 
Till,   launched  at  sea,   he  dreamt  that  his  soul's 

saint 

Clung  to  him  on  a  bridge  of  ice,  pale,  faint, 
O'er  cataracts  of  blood.  Awake,  he  blessed 
The  shore ;  nor  hope  left  utterly  his  breast, 


48  THEODRIC. 

Till  reaching  home,  terrific  omen  !  there 

The  straw-laid  street  preluded  his  despair — 

The  servant's  look — the  table  that  revealed 

His  letter  sent  to  CONSTANCE  last,  still  sealed — 

Though  speech  and  hearing  left  him,  told  too  clear 

That  he  had  now  to  suffer — not  to  fear. 

He  felt  as  if  he  ne'er  should  cease  to  feel — 

A  wretch  live-broken  on  misfortune's  wheel : 

Her  death's  cause — he  might  make  his  peace  with 

Heaven, 
Absolved  from  guilt,  but  never  self-forgiven. 

The  ocean  has  its  ebbings — so  has  grief ; 
'T  was  vent  to  anguish,  if 't  was  not  relief, 
To  lay  his  brow  even  011  her  death-cold  cheek. 
Then  first  he  heard  her  one  kind  sister  speak  : 
She  bade  him,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  forbear 
With  self-reproach  to  deepen  his  despair : 

*  'T  was  blame,'  she  said,  '  I  shudder  to  relate, 
But  none  of  yours,  that  caused  our  darling's  fate  | 
Her  mother  (must  I  call  l\er  such  ?)  foresaw, 
Should   CONSTANCE   leave    the    land,  she    would 

withdraw 

Our  House's  charm  against  the  world's  neglect— 
The  only  gem  that  drew  it  some  respect. 
Hence,    when    you    went,    she   came  and    vainly 

spoke 

To  change  her  purpose — grew  incensed,  and  broke 
With  execrations  from  her  kneeling  child. 
S^art  not !  your  angel  from  her  knee  rose  mild, 
Feared  that  she  should  not  long  the  scene  outlive,, 
Yet  bade  even  you  tlr*  unnatural  one  forgive. 
Till  then  her  ailment  had  been  slight,  or  none  ; 
But  fast  she  drooped,  and  fatal  pains  came  on 
Foreseeing  their  event,  she  dictated 
And  signed  these  words    for    you.'       The    letter 
said — 

'  THEODKIC,  this  is  destiny  above 
Our  power  to  baffle ;  bear  it  then,  my  love ! 


THEODRIC.  49 

Have  not  to  learn  the  usage  I  have  borne, 

For  one  true  sister  left  me  not  forlorn  j 

And  though  you  're  absent  in  another  land, 

Sent  from  me  by  my  own  well  meant  command, 

Your  soul,  I  know,  as  firm  is  knit  to  mine 

As  these  clasped  hands  in  blessing  you  now  join  : 

Shape  not  imagined  horrors  in  my  fate — 

Even  now  my  sufferings  are  not  very  great ; 

And  when  your  griefs  first  transports  shall  subside, 

I  call  upon  your  strength  of  soul  and  pride 

To  pay  my  memory,  if  }t  is  worth  the  debt, 

Love's  glorying  tribute — not  forlorn  regret ; 

I  charge  my  name  with  power  to  conjure  up 

Reflection's  balmy,  not  its  bitter  cup. 

My  pardoning  angel,  at  the  gates  of  Heaven, 

Shall  look  not  more  regard  than  you  have  given 

To  me  j  and  our  life's  union  has  been  clad 

In  smiles  of  bliss  as  sweet  as  life  e'er  had. 

Shall  gloom  be  from  such  bright  remembrance  cast  ? 

Shall  bitterness  outflow  from  sweetness  past ' 

No !  imaged  in  the  sanctuary  of  your  breast, 

There  let  me  smile,  amidst  high  thoughts  at  rest ; 

And  let  contentment  on  your  spirit  shine, 

As  if  its  peace  were  still  a  part  of  mine : 

For  if  you  war  not  proudly  with  your  pain, 

For  you  I  shall  have  worse  than  lived  in  vain. 

Eut  I  conjure  your  manliness  to  bear 

My  loss  with  noble  spirit — not  despair  • 

I  ask  you  by  our  love  to  promise  this, 

And  kiss  these  words  where  I  have  left  a  kiss,— 

The  latest  from  my  living  lips  for  yours.' — 

Words  that  will  solace  him  while  life  endures : 

For  though  his  spirit  from  affliction's  surge 

Could  ne'er  to  life,  as  life  had  been,  emerge, 

Yet  still  that  mind  whose  harmony  elate 

Rang  sweetness,  even  beneath  the  crush  of  fate,— • 

That  mind  in  whose  regard  all  things  were  placed 

In  views  that  softened  them,  or  lights  that  graced, 


)  THEODRIC. 

That  soul's  example  could  not  but  dispense 
A  portion  of  its  own  blessed  influence ; 
Invoking  him  to  peace  and  that  self-sway 
Which  Fortune  cannot  give,  nor  take  away  : 
And  though  he  mourned  her  long,  't  was  with  such 

woe 
As  if  her  spirit  watched  him  still  below." 


TRANSLATIONS, 


MARTIAL  ELEGY. 

FROM  THE  GREEK  OF  TYRT.3SUS. 

How  glorious  fall  the  valiant,  sword  in  Land, 

In  front  of  battle  for  their  native  land ! 

Bat  oh !  what  ills  await  the  wretch  that  yields, 

A  recreant  outcast  from  his  country's  fields ! 

The  mother  whom  he  loves  shall  quit  her  home, 

An  aged  father  at  his  side  shall  roam ; 

His  little  ones  shall  weeping  with  him  go, 

And  a  young  wife  participate  his  woe ; 

While  scorned  and  scowled  upon  by  every  face. 

They  pine  for  food  and  beg  from  place  to  place. 

Stain  of  his  breed  !  dishonoring  manhood's  form, 
All  ills  shall  cleave  to  him : — Affliction's  storm 
Shall  blind  him  wandering  in  the  vale  of  years, 
Till,  lost  to  all  but  ignominious  fears, 
He  shall  not  blush  to  leave  a  recreant's  name, 
And  children,  like  himself,  inured  to  shame. 

But  we  will  combat  for  our  fathers'  land, 
And  we  will  drain  the  life-blood  where  we  stand, 
To  save  our  children : — fight  ye  side  by  side, 
And  serried  close,  ye  men  of  youthful  pride, 
Disdaining  fear,  and  deeming  light  the  cost 
Of  life  itself  in  glorious  battle  lost. 


I  SONG  OF  HYBRIAS  THE  CRETAN. 

Leave  not  out  sires  to  stem  the  unequal  fight, 
Whose  limbs  are  nerved    no  more  with   buoyant 

might ; 

Nor,  lagging  backward,  let  the  younger  breast 
Permit  the  man  of  age  (a  sight  unblessed) 
To  welter  in  the  combat's  foremost  thrust, 
His  hoary  head  dishevelled  in  the  dust, 
And  venerable  bosom  bleeding  bare. 

But  youth's  fair  form,  though  fallen,  is  ever  fair, 
And  beautiful  in  death  the  boy  appears, 
The  hero  boy,  that  dies  in  blooming  years  : 
In  man's  regret  he  lives,  and  woman's  tears, 
More  sacred  than  in  life,  and  lovelier  far, 
For  having  perished  in  the  front  of  war. 


SONG  OF  HYBRIAS  THE  CRETAN. 

MY  wealth 's  a  burly  spear  and  brand, 
And  a  right  good  shield  of  hides  untanned, 

Which  on  my  arm  I  buckle : 
With  these  I  plough,  I  reap,  I  sow, 
With  these  I  make  the  sweet  vintage  flow, 

And  all  around  me  truckle. 

But  your  wights  that  take  no  pride  to  wield 
A  massy  spear  and  well-made  shield, 

Nor  joy  to  draw  the  sword : 
Oh,  I  bring  those  heartless,  hapless  drones, 
Down  in  a  trice  on  their  marrow-bones, 

To  call  me  Kinsr  and  Lord. 


TRANSLATIONS  FKOM  MEDEA. 


FRAGMENT. 

FROM  THE  GREEK  OF  ALCMAX. 

THE   mountain    summits  sleep :    glens,  cliffs,  and 

caves 

Are  silent — all  the  black  earth's  reptile  brood — 
The  bees — the  wild  beasts  of  the  mountain  wood : 
In  depths  beneath  the  dark  red  ocean's  waves 

Its  monsters  rest,   whilst   wrapt  in    bower   and 

spray 

Each  bird  is  hushed  that  stretched  its  pinions  to 
the  dav. 


SPECIMENS  OF  TRANSLATIONS  FROM 
MEDEA. 


Aeyuv,  novdtv  n  acxpovf 
Tovf  irpoafie  fiporoV^-ovK  uv  u/jiaproif. 

Medea,  v.  194,  p.  33,  Glasg.  edit. 

TELL  me,  ye  bards,  whose  skill  sublime 
First  charmed  the  ear  of  youthful  Time, 
With  numbers  wrapt  in  heavenly  fire, 
Who  bade  delighted  Echo  swell 
The  trembling  transports  of  the  lyre, 
The  murmur  of  the  shell  — 
Why  to  the  burst  of  Joy  alone 
Accords  sweet  Music's  soothing  tone  "? 
Why  can  no  bard,  with  magic  strain, 
In  slumbers  steep  the  heart  of  pain  ? 
While  varied  tones  obey  your  sweep, 
The  mild,  the  plaintive,  and  the  deep, 


54  TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MEDEA. 

Bends  not  despairing  Grief  to  hear 
Your  golden  lute,  with  ravished  ear  ? 
Has  all  your  art  no  power  to  bind 
The  fiercer  pangs  that  shake  the  mind, 
And  lull  the  wrath  at  whose  command 
Murder  bares  her  gory  hand  ? 
When  flushed  with  joy,  the  rosy  throng 
Weave  the  light  dance,  ye  swell  the  song ! 
Cease,  ye  vain  warblers !  cease  to  charm 
The  breast  with  other  raptures  warm  ! 
Cease !  till  your  hand  with  magic  strain 
In  slumbers  steep  the  heart  of  pain ! 


SPEECH  OF  THE  CHORUS, 

TJf  THE  SAME  TRAGEDY, 

TO  DISSUADE  MFDEA  FUOM  HER  PURPOSE  OF  TUTTING  IIEK  CHILDRBS  TO 
DEATH,  AND  FLY1KG  FOB  PROTECTION  TO  ATHENS. 

O  HAGGARD  queen !  to  Athens  dost  thou  guide 
Thy  glowing  chariot,  steeped  in  kindred  gore ; 

Or  seek  to  hide  thy  foul  infanticide 

Where  Peace  and  Mercy  dwell  for  evermore  ? 

The  land  where  Truth,  pure,  precious,  and  sublime, 
Woos  the  deep  silence  of  sequestered  bowers, 

And  warriors,  matchless  since  the  first  of  time, 
Rear  their    bright    banners    o'er  unconquered 
towers ! 

Where  joyous  youth,  to  Music's  mellow  strain, 
Twines  in  the  dance  with  nympha  for  ever  fair, 

While  Spring  eternal  on  the  lilied  plain, 

Waves  amber  radiance  through  the  fields  of  air ! 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MEDEA.  55 

The  tuneful  Nine  (so  sacred  legends  tell) 

First  waked  their  heavenly  lyre  these    scenes 
among : 

Still  in  your  greenwood  bowers  they  love  to  dwell ; 
Still  in  your  vales  they  swell  the  choral  song ! 

But  there  the  tuneful,  chaste,  Pierian  fan1, 
The  guardian  nymphs  of  green  Parnassus,  now 

Sprung  from  Harmonia,  while  her  graceful  hair 
Waved  in  high  auburn  o'er  her  polished  brow ! 


ANTISTKOPHE  I. 

Where  silent  vales,  and  glades  of  green  array, 
The  murmuring  wreaths  of  cool  Cephisus  lave, 

There,  as  the  muse  hath  sung,  at  noon  of  day, 
The  Queen  of  Beauty  bowed  to  taste  the  wave ; 

And  blessed  the  stream,  and  breathed  across  the 

land 
The  soft  sweet  gale  that  fans  yon  summer  bow 

ersj 
And  there  the  sister  Loves,  a  smiling  band, 

Crowned  with  the  fragrant  wreaths  of  rosy  flowers ! 

"  And  go,"  she  cries,  "  in  yonder  valleys  rove, 
With  Beauty's  torch  the  solemn  scenes  illume; 

Wake  in  each  eye  the  radiant  light  of  Love, 

Breathe  on  each  cheek  young  Passion's  tender 
bloom ! 

Entwine  with  myrtle  chains,  your  soft  control, 
To  sway  the  hearts  of  Freedom's  darling  kind : 

With  glowing  charms  enrapture  Wisdom's  soul, 
And  mould  to  grace  ethereal  Virtue's  mind." 


50  TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MEDEA. 


STEOPHE   II. 

The  land  where  Heaven's  own  hallowed  waters  play, 
Where  friendship  binds  the  generous  and  the  good, 

Say,  shall  it  hail  thee  from  thy  frantic  way, 
Unholy  woman !  with  thy  hands  embrued 

In  thine  own  children's  gore  ?     Oh  !  ere  they  bleed, 
Let  Nature's  voice  thy  ruthless  heart  appall ! 

Pause  at  the  bold,  irrevocable  deed — 

The  mother  strikes — the  guiltless  babes  shall  fall  I 

Think  what  remorse  thy  maddening  thoughts  shall 
sting, 

When  dying  pangs  their  gentle  bosoms  tear ! 
Where  shalt  thou  sink,  when  lingering  echoes  ring" 

The  screams  of  horror  in  thy  tortured  ear  ! 

No !  let  thy  bosom  melt  to  Pity's  cry, — 

In  dust  we  kneel — by  sacred  Heaven  implore—' 

O  !  stop  thy  lifted  arm,  ere  yet  they  die, 
Nor  dip  thy  horrid  hands  in  infant  gore ! 


AXTISTROPHE  II. 

Say,  how  shalt  thou  that  barbarous  soul  assume, 
Undamped  by  horror  at  the  daring  plan  ? 

I  last  thou  a  heart  to  work  thy  children's  doom? 
Or  hands  to  finish  what  thy  wrath  began  ? 

When  o'er  each  babe  you  look  a  last  adieu, 
And  gaze  on  Innocence  that  smiles  asleep, 

Shall  no  fond  feeling  beat  to  Nature  true, 

Charm  thee  to  pensive  thought — and  bid  thee 
weep  ? 

When  the  young  suppliants  clasp  their  parent  dear, 
Heave    tho    deep    sob,    and    pour    the     unless 
prayer — 


TRANSLATIONS  FBOM  MEDEA.  57 

Av !    thou  shalt  melt ; — and  many    a   heart-shed 

tear 
Gush  o'er  the  hardened  features  of  despair ! 

Mature  shall  throb  in  every  tender  string, — 
Thy  trembling  heart  the  ruffian's  task  deny  ; — 

Thy  horror-smitten  hands  afar  shall  fling 

The  blade,  undrenched  in  blood's  eternal  dye. 


CHORUS. 

• 
Hallowed  Earth !    With  indignation 

Mark,  oh  mark,  the  murderous  deed  ! 
Kadiant  eye  of  wide  creation, 

Watch  th'  accursed  infanticide ! 

Yet,  ere  Colchia's  rugged  daughter 

Perpetrate  the  dire  design, 
And  consign  to  kindred  slaughter 

Children  of  thy  golden  line  ! 

Shall  mortal  hand,  with  murder  gory, 
Cause  immortal  blood  to  flow  ? 

Sun  of  Heaven ! — arrayed  in  glory 
Rise,  forbid,  avert  the  blow  I 

In  the  vales  of  placid  gladness 
Let  no  rueful  maniac  range ; 

Chase  afar  the  fiend  of  Madness, 
Wrest  the  dagger  from  Revenge ! 

Say,  hast  thou,  with  kind  protection, 
Reared  thy  smiling  race  in  vain ; 

Fostering  Nature's  fond  affection, 
Tender  cares,  and  pleasing  pain ! 

Hast  thou,  on  the  troubled  ocean, 
Braved  the  tempest  loud  and  strong, 


58  TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MEDEA. 

Where  the  waves,  in  wild  commotion, 
Eoar  Cyanean's  rocks  among  ? 

Didst  thou  roam  the  paths  of  danger, 
Hymenean  joys  to  prove? 

Spare,  O  sanguinary  stranger, 
Pledges  of  thy  sacred  love ! 

Ask  not  Heaven's  commiseration, 
After  thou  hast  done  the  deed ; 

Mercy,  pardon,  expiation, 

Perish  when  thy  victims  bleed. 


O'CONNOR'S  CHILD  j 

OR, 

"  THE  FLOWER  OF  LOVE  LIES  BLEEDIXG." 
I. 

OH  !  once  the  harp  of  Innisfail 

Was  strung  full  high  to  notes  of  gladness ; 

But  yet  it  often  told  a  tale 

Of  more  prevailing  sadness. 

Sad  was  the  note,  and  wild  its  fall, 

As  winds  that  moan  at  night  forlorn 

Along  the  isles  of  Fion-Gall, 

When,  for  O'Connor's  child  to  mourn, 

The  harper  told,  how  lone,  how  far 

From  any  mansion's  twinkling  star, 

From  any  path  of  social  men, 

Or  voice,  but  from  the  fox's  den, 

The  lady  in  the  desert  dwelt  5 

And  yet  no  wrongs,  nor  fears  she  felt : 

Say,  why  should  dwell  in  place  so  wild, 

O'Connor's  pale  and  lovely  child  ? 

II. 

Sweet  lady !  she  no  more  inspires 
Green  Erin's  hearts  with  beauty's  power, 
As,  in  the  palace  of  her  sires, 
She  bloomed  a  peerless  flower. 
Gone  from  her  hand  and  bosom,  gone, 
The  royal  broche,  the  jewelled  ring, 
That  o'er  her  dazzling  whiteness  shone, 
Like  dews  on  lilies  of  the  spring. 
Yet  why,  though  fall'n  her  brother's  kerne, 
Beneath  De  Bourgo's  battle  stern, 
While  yet  in  Leinster  unexplored, 
Her  friends  survive  the  English  sword ; 


60  O'CONNOR'S  CHILD. 

Why  lingers  she  from  Erin's  host, 
So  far  on  Galway's  shipwrecked  coast ; 
Why  wanders  she  a  huntress  wild — 
O'Connor's  pale  and  lovely  child  ? 

m. 

And  fixed  on  empty  space,  why  burn 
Her  eyes  with  momentary  wildness ; 
And  wherefore  do  they  then  return 
To  more  than  woman's  mildness  ? 
Dishevelled  are  her  raven  locks ; 
On  Connocht  Moran's  name  she  calls  ; 
And  oft  amidst  the  lonely  rocks 
She  sings  sweet  madrigals. 
Placed 'midst  the  foxglove  and  the  mosSj 
Behold  a  parted  warrior7 s  cross ! 
That  is  the  spot  where,  evermore, 
The  lady,  at  her  shieling  door, 
Enjoys  that,  in  communion  sweet, 
The  living  and  the  dead  can  meet, 
For,  lo  !  to  love-lorn  fantasy, 
The  hero  of  her  heart  is  nigh. 

IV.     ' 

Bright  as  the  bow  that  spans  the  storm, 

In  Erin's  yellow  vesture  clad, 

A  son  of  fight — a  lovely  form, 

He  comes  and  makes  her  glad ; 

Now  on  the  grass-green  turf  he  sits, 

His  tasselled  horn  beside  him  laid ; 

Now  o'er  the  hills  in  chase  he  flits, 

The  hunter  and  the  deer  a  shade ! 

Sweet  mourner  !  these  are  shadows  vain 

That  cross  the  twilight  of  her  brain ; 

Yet  she  will  tell  you,  she  is  blest, 

Of  Connocht  Moran's  tomb  possessed, 

More  richly  than  in  Aghrim's  bower. 

When  bards  high  praised  her  beauty's  power, 


O'CONNOR'S  CHILD.  61 

And  kneeling  pages  offered  up 
The  morat  in  a  golden  cup. 

v. 

"  A  hero's  bride !  this  desert  bower,   . 

It  ill  befits,  thy  gentle  breeding : 

And  wherefore  dost  thou  love  this  flower 

To  call — 'My  love  lies  bleeding"?'" 
"  This  purple  flower  my  tears  have  nursed  j 

A  hero's  blood  supplied  its  bloom  : 

I  love  it,  for  it  was  the  first 

That  grew  on  Connocht  Moran's  tomb. 

Oh !  hearken,  stranger,  to  my  voice ! 

This  desert  mansion  is  my  choice ! 

And  blest,  though  fatal,  be  the  star 

That  led  me  to  its  wilds  afar : 

For  here  these  pathless  mountains  free 

Gave  shelter  to  my  love  and  me ; 

And  every  rock  and  every  stone 

Bore  witness  that  he  was  my  own. 

VI. 

O'Connor's  child,  I  was  the  bud 
Of  Erin's  royal  tree  of  glory ; 
But  woe  to  them  that  wrapt  in  blood 
The  tissue  of  my  story ! 
Still  as  I  clasp  my  burning  brain, 
A  death-scene  rushes  on  my  sight ; 
It  rises  o'er  and  o'er  again,  • 
The  bloody  feud — the  fatal  night, 
When  chafing  Connocht  Moran's  scorn, 
They  called  my  hero  basely  bora ; 
And  bade  him  chose  a  meaner  bride 
Than  from  O'Connor's  house  of  pride. 
Their  tribe,  they  said,  their  high  degree, 
Was  sung  in  Tara's  psaltery ; 
Witness  their  Eath's  victorious  brand, 
And  Cathal  of  the  bloody  hand ; 


€2  O'CONNOR'S  CHILD. 

Glory  (they  said)  and  power  and  honor 
Were  in  the  mansion  of  O'Connor : 
But  he,  my  loved  one,  bore  in  field 
A  humbler  crest,  a  meaner  shield. 

vn. 

Ah,  brothers !  what  did  it  avail, 
That  fiercely  and  triumphantly 
Ye  fought  the  English  of  the  Pale, 
And  stemmed  De  Bourgo's  chivalry ! 
And  what  was  it  to  love  and  me, 
That  barons  by  your  standard  rode ; 
Or  beal-fires  for  your  jubilee 
Upon  a  hundred  mountains  glowed  ? 
What  though  the  lords  of  tower  and  dome 
From  Shannon  to  the  North-sea  foam, — 
Thought  ye  your  iron  hands  of  pride 
Could  break  the  knot  that  love  had  tied  ? 
No : — let  the  eagle  change  his  plume, 
The  leaf  its  hue,  the  flower  its  bloom ; 
But  ties  around  this  heart  were  spun, 
That  could  not,  would  not,  be  undone ! 

VIII. 

At  bleating  of  the  wild  watch-fold 
Thus  sang  my  love — '  Oh,  come  with  me  : 
Our  bark  is  on  the  lake,  behold 
Our  steeds  are  fastened  to  the  tree. 
Come  far  from  Castle-Connor's  clans  : — 
Come  with  thy  belted  forestere, 
And  I,  beside  the  lake  of  swans, 
Shall  hunt  for  thee  the  fallow-deer ; 
And  build  thy  hut,  and  bring  thee  home 
The  wild-fowl  and  the  honey-comb ; 
And  berries  from  the  wood  provide, 
And  play  my  clarshech  by  thy  side. 
Then  come,  my  love !' — How  could  I  stay  ? 
Our  nimble  stag-hounds  tracked  the  way, 


O'CONNOR'S  ^HILD.  i 

And  I  pursued,  by  moonless  skies, 
The  light  of  Connocht  Moran's  eyes. 

IX. 

And/fast  and  far,  before  the  star 

Of  day-spring,  rushed  we  through  the  glade, 

And  saw  at  dawn  the  lofty  bawn 

Of  Castle-Connor  fade. 

Sweet  was  to  us  the  hermitage 

Of  this  unploughed,  untrodden  shore  ; 

Like  birds  all  joyous  from  the  cage, 

For  man's  neglect  we  loved  it  more. 

And  well  he  knew,  my  huntsman  dear, 

To  search  the  game  with  hawk  and  spear ; 

While  I,  his  evening  food  to  dress, 

Would  sing  to  him  in  happiness. 

But,  oh,  that  midnight  of  despair ! 

When  I  was  doomed  to  rend  my  hair : 

The  night,  to  me,  of  shrieking  sorrow  ! 

The  night  to  him,  that  had  no  morrow ! 

x. 

When  all  was  hushed  at  even  tide, 
I  heard  the  baying  of  their  beagle : 
Be  hushed  !  my  Connocht  Moran  cried, 
T  is  but  the  screaming  of  the  eagle. 
Alas !  't  was  not  the  eyrie's  sound ; 
Their  bloody  bands  had  tracked  us  out ; 
Up-listening  starts  our  couchant  hound — 
And,  hark  !  again,  that  nearer  shout 
Brings  faster  on  the  murderers. 
Spare — spare  him — Brazil — Desmond  fierce  ! 
In  vain — no  voice  the  adder  charms ; 
Their  weapons  crossed  my  sheltering  arms : 
Another's  sword  has  laid  him  low — 
Another's  and  another's ; 
And  every  hand  that  dealt  the  blow — 
Ah  me !  it  was  a  brother's ! 


C4  O'CONNOR'S  CHILD. 

Yes,  when  his  meanings  died  away, 
Their  iron  hands  had  dug  the  clay, 
And  o'er  his  burial  turf  they  trod, 
And  I  beheld— oh  God!  oh  God!— 
His  life-blood  oozing  from  the  sod. 

XI. 

Warm  in  his  death-wounds  sepulchred, 
Alas !  my  warrior's  spirit  brave 
Nor  mass  nor  ulla-lulla  heard, 
Lamenting,  soothe  his  grave. 
Dragged  tc  their  hated  mansion  back, 
How  long  in  thraldom's  grasp  I  lay 
I  know  not,  for  my  soul  was  black, 
And  knew  no  change  of  night  or  day. 
One  night  of  horror  round  me  grew ; 
Or  if  I  saw,  or  felt,  or  knew, 
7T  was  but  when  those  grim  visages, 
.    The  angry  brothers  of  my  race, 

Glared  on  each  eye-ball's  aching  throb, 
And  check  my  bosom's  power  to  sob, 
Or  when  my  heart  with  pulses  drear 
JBeat  like  a  death-watch  to  my  ear. 

XII. 

But  Heaven,  at  last,  my  soul's  eclipse 
Did  with  a  vision  bright  inspire  ; 
I  woke  and  felt  upon  my  lips 
A  prophetess's,  fire. 
Thrice  in  the  east  a  war-drum  beat, 
I  heard  the  Saxon's  trumpet  sound, 
And  ranged,  as  to  the  judgment-seat, 
My  guilty,  trembling  brothers  round, 
Clad  in  the  helm  and  shield  they  came 
For  now  De  Bourgo's  sword  and  flame 
Had  ravaged  Ulster's  boundaries, 
And  lighted  up  the  midnight  skies. 


O'CONNOR'S  CHILD.  G5 

The  standard  of  O'Connor's  sway 
Was  in  the  turret  where  I  lay  ; 
That  standard,  with  so  dire  a  look, 
As  ghastly  shone  the  moon  and  pale, 
I  gave — that  every  bosom  shook 
Beneath  its  iron  mail. 

XIII. 

And  go  !  (I  cried)  the  combat  seek, 
Ye  hearts  that  unappalled  bore 
The  anguish  of  a  sister's  shriek, 
Go  ! — and  return  no  more  ! 
For  sooner  guilt  the  ordeal  brand 
Shall  grasp  unhurt,  than  ye  shall  hold 
The  banner  with  victorious  hand, 
Beneath  a  sister's  curse  unrolled. 

0  stranger !  by  my  country's  loss  ! 
And  by  my  love !  and  by  the  cross  ! 

1  swear  I  never  could  have  spoke 
The  curse  that  severed  nature's  yoke, 
But  that  a  spirit  o'er  me  stood, 
And  fired  me  with  the  wrathful  mood ; 
And  frenzy  to  my  heart  was  given, 
To  speak  the  malison  of  Heaven. 

XIV. 

They  would  have  crossed  themselves,  all  mute ; 

They  would  have  prayed  to  burst  the  spell  j 

But  at  the  stamping  of  my  foot 

Each  hand  down  powerless  fell ! 

And  go  to  Athunree  !  (I  cried) 

High  lift  the  banner  of  your  pride  ! 

But  know  that  where  its  sheet  unrolls, 

The  weight  of  blood  is  on  your  souls  ! 

Go  where  the  havoc  of  your  kerne 

Shall  float  as  high  as  mountain  fern ! 

Men  shall  no  more  your  mansion  know  j 

The  nettles  on  your  heart  shall  grow  ! 


CC  O'CONNOR'S  CHILD. 

Dead,  as  the  green  oblivious  flood 
That  mantles  by  your  walls,  shall  be 
The  glory  of  O'Connor's  blood ! 
Away !  away  to  Athunree ! 
Where,  downward  when  the  sun  shall  fall 
The  raven's  wing  shall  be  your  pall ! 
And  not  a  vassal  shall  unlace 
The  vizor  from  your  dying  face ! 

xv. 

A  bolt  that  overhung  our  dome 
Suspended  till  my  curse  was  given, 
Soon  as  it  passed  these  lips  of  foam, 
Pealed  in  the  blood-red  heaven. 
Dire  was  the  look  that  o'er  their  backs 
The  angry  parting  brothers  threw : 
But  now,  behold !  like  cataracts, 
Come  down  the  hills  in  view 
O'Connor's  plumed  partisans ; 
Thrice  ten  Kilnagorvian  clans 
Were  marching  to  their  doom : 
A  sudden  storm  their  plumage  tossed, 
A  flash  of  lightning  o'er  them  crossed, 
And  all  again  was  gloom  ! 

XVI. 

Stranger  !  I  fled  the  home  of  grief, 
At  Connocht  JVioran's  tomb  to  fall ; 
I  found  the  helmet  of  my  chief, 
His  bow  still  hanging  on  our  wall, 
And  took  it  down,  and  vowed  to  rove 
This  desert  place  a  huntress  bold ; 
Nor  would  I  change  my  buried  love 
For  any  heart  of  living  mould. 
No !  for  I  am  a  hero's  child ; 
I'll  hunt  my  quarry  in  the  wild ; 
And  still  my  home  this  mansion  make, 
Of  all  unheeded  and  r:^uv<';:y, 


LOCHIEL'S  WARNING.  07 

And  cherish,  for  my  warrior's  sake— 
1  The  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding.' " 


LOCHIEL'S  WARNING. 

WIZARD LOCHIEL 

WIZARD. 

LOCHIEL  !  Lochiel !  "beware  of  the  day 
When  the  lowlands  shall  meet  thee  in  "battle  array  ! 
For  a  field  of  the  dead  rushes  red  on  my  sight, 
And  the  clans  of  Culloden  are  scattered  in  fight. 
They  rally,  they  bleed,  for  then*  kingdom  and  crown  • 
Woe,  woe  to  the  riders  that  trample  them  down ! 
Proud  Cumberland  prances,  insulting  the  slain, 
And  their  hoof-beaten  bosoms  are  trod  to  the  plain. 
But  hark  I  through  the  fast-flashing  lightning  of  war, 
What  steed  to  the  desert  flies  frantic  and  far  ? 
7T  is  thine,  oh  Glenullin !  whose  bride  shall  await, 
Like  a  love-lighted  watch-fire,  all  night  at  the  gate. 
A  steed  comes  at  morning :  no  rider  is  there ; 
But  its  bridle  is  red  with  the  sign  of  despair. 
Weep,  Albin !  to  death  and  captivity  led ! 
Oh  weep,  but  thy  tears  cannot  number  the  dead : 
For  a  merciless  sword  on  Culloden  shall  wave, 
Culloden  !  that  reeks  with  the  blood  of  the  brave. 

LOCHIEL. 

Go,  preach  to  the  coward,  thou  death-telling  seer; 
Or,  if  gory  Culloden  so  dreadful  appear, 
Draw,  dotard,  around  thy  old  wavering  sight 
This  mantle,  to  cover  the  phantoms  of  fright. 


63  LOCHIEL'S  WARNING. 

WIZARD. 

Ha !  laugh'st  thou,  Lochiel,  my  vision  to  scorn  ? 
Proud  bird  of  the  mountain,  thy  plume  shall  be  torn : 
Say,  rushed  the  bold  eagle  exultingly  forth, 
From  his  home,  in  the  dark  rolling  clouds  of  the 

north? 

Lo  !  the  death-shot  of  foemen  outspeeding,  he  rode 
Companionless,  bearing  destruction  abroad ; 
But  down  let  him  stoop  from  his  havoc  on  high  ! 
Ah  !  home  let  him  speed, — for  the  spoiler  is  nigh. 
Why  flames  the  far  summit?     Why  shoot  to  the 

blast 

Those  embers,  like  stars  from  the  firmament  cast  ? 
;T  is  the  fire-shower  of  ruin,  all  dreadfully  driven 
From  his  eyrie,  that  beacons  the  darkness  of  heaven. 
Oh,  crested  Lochiel !  the  peerless  in  might, 
Whose  banners  arise  on  the  battlements'  height, 
Heaven's  fire  is  around  thee,  to  blast  and  to  bum ; 
Return  to  thy  dwelling !  all  lonely  return  ! 
For  the  blackness  of  ashes  shall  mark  where  it  stood, 
And  a  wild  mother  scream  o'er  her  famishing  brood. 

LOCHIEL. 

False  Wizard,  avaunt !  I  have  marshalled  my  clan, 
Their  swords  are  a  thousand,  their  bosoms  are  one  ! 
They  are  true  to  the  last  of  their  blood  and  their 

breath, 

And  like  reapers  descend  to  the  harvest  of  death. 
Then  welcome  be  Cumberland's  steed  to  the  shock ! 
Let  him  dash  his  proud  foam  like  a  wave  on  the  rock ! 
But  woe  to  his  kindred,  and  woe  to  his  cause, 
When  Albin  her  claymore  indignantly  draws  ; 
When  hei  bonneted  chieftains  to  victory  crowd, 
Clanronald  the  dauntless,  and  Moray  the  proud, 
All  plaided  and  plumed  in  their  tartan  array 


LOCHIEL'S  WARNING.  69 

WIZARD. 

Lochiel,  Lochiel !  bewar§  of  the  day ; 

For,  dark  and  despairing,  my  sight  I  may  seal, 
But  man  cannot  cover  what  God  would  reveal ; 
7T  is  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  lore, 
And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 
I  tell  thee,  Culloden's  dread  echoes  shall  ring 
"With  the  bloodhounds  that  bark  for  thy  fugitive  king. 
Lo !  anointed  by  Heaven  with  the  vials  of  wratli, 
Behold  where  he  flies  on  his  desolate  path  ! 
Isow  in  darkness  and  billows,  he  sweeps  from  my 

.  sight : 

Rise,  rise !  ye  wild  tempests,  and  cover  his  flight ! 
*T  is  finished.     Their  thunders  are  hushed  on  the 

moors: 

Culloden  is  lost,  and  my  country  deplores. 
But  where  is  the  iron-bound  prisoner  ?     Where 
For  the  red  eye  of  battle  is  shut  in  despair. 
Say,  mounts  he  the  ocean-wave,  banished,  forlorn, 
Like  a  limb  from  his  country  cast  bleeding  and  torn  ? 
Ah,  no  !  for  a  darker  departure  is  near ; 
The  war-drum  is  muffled,  and  black  is  the  bier ; 
His  death-bell  is  tolling :  oh  !  mercy,  dispel 
Yon  sight,  that  it  freezes  my  spirit  to  tell ! 
Life  flutters  convulsed  in  his  quivering  limbs, 
And  his  bloo^-streaming  nostril  in  agony  swims. 
Accursed  be  the  fagots,  that  blaze  at  his  feet, 
Where  his  heart  shall  be  thrown,  ere  it  ceases  to 

beat, 
With  the  smoke  of  its  ashes  to  poison  the  gale 

LOCHIEL. 

Down,  soothless  insulter !  I  trust  not  the  talc  : 

For  never  shall  Albin  a  destiny  meet, 

So  black  with  dishonor,  so  foul  with  retreat. 

Tho'  my  perishing  ranks  should  be  strewed  in  their 

gore, 
Like  ocean-weeds  heaped  on  the  surf-beaten  shore, 


70  YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND. 

Lochiel,  untainted  by  flight  or  by  chains, 
While  the  kindling  of  life  in  his  bosom  remains. 
Shall  victor  exult,  or  in  death  be  laid  low, 
With  his  back  to  the  field,  and  his  feet  to  the  foe  ! 
And  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  his  name, 
Look   proudly  to   Heaven   from   the   death-bed  of 
fame. 

180-2. 


YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND. 

A    NAVAL    ODE. 
I. 

YE  Mariners  of  England ! 

That  guard  our  native  seas ; 

Whose  flag  has  braved,  a  thousand  years, 

The  battle  and  the  breeze ! 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 

To  match  another  foe ! 

And  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long1 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

ii. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave ! — 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame. 

And  Ocean  was  their  grave : 

Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell, 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow, 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 


YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND. 

III. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks, 

No  towers  along  the  steep ; 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain-waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak, 

J3he  quells  the  floods  below, — 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore. 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow : 

When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

IV. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn ; 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean-warriors  ! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow, 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 

1600. 


72  BATTLE  Ol^  Till:  LALTIO. 


BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC. 


OF  Nelson  and  the  North, 

Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 

When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 

All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown, 

And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone  j 

By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand, 

In  a  bold  determined  hand, 

And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 

Led  them  on. — 

ii. 

Like  leviathans  afloat, 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine ; 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line ; 

It  was  ten  of  April  mom  by  the  chime 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path, 

There  was  silence  deep  as  death ; 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath, 

For  a  time. — 

in. 

But  the  might  of  England  flushed 

To  anticipate  the  scene ; 

And  her  van  the  fleeter  rushed 

O'er  the  deadly  space  between. 

( Hearts  of  oak !'  our  captain  cried ;  when  each 

gun 

From  its  adamantine  lips 
Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 
Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun. 


BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC.  73 


IV. 

Again  !  again !  again ! 

And  the  havoc  did  not.  slack,     « 

Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back ; — 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom  :— 

Then  ceased — and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  the  shattered  sail : 

Or,  in  conflagration  pale, 

Light  the  gloom. — 

v. 

Out  spoke  the  victor  then, 

As  he  hailed  them  o'er  the  wave ; 

1  Ye  are  brothers !  ye  are  men ! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save : — 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring ; 

But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet, 

With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 

And  make  submission  meet 

To  our  King.' — 

VI. 

Then  Denmark  blessed  our  chief, 

That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose ; 

And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 

From  her  people  wildly  rose, 

As  death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day. 

While  the  sun  looked  smiling  bright 

O'er  a  wide  and  woful  sight, 

Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 

Died  away. 

VII. 

Now  joy,  Old  England,  raise  ! 
For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 
By  the  festal  cities'  blaze, 
'Whilst  the  wine-cup  shines  in  light ; 
D 


BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC. 

And  yet  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar, 
Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep, 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 
By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore ! 

VIII. 

Brave  hearts  !    to  Britain's  pride 

Once  so  faithful  and  so  true, 

On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died ; — 

With  the  gallant  good  Riou  ;* 

Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  Heaven  o'er  their 

While  the  billow  mournful  rolls, 

And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles, 

Singing  glory  to  the  souls 

Of  the  brave ! 

1805. 


The  Battle  of  the  Baltic  was  written  in  the  early  part  of  lSu5>, 
and  the  original  sketch  was  communicated  to  Sir  Walter  Soote,, 
in  a  letter  dated  March  27,  1806.  On  its  first  appearance  it  was 
set  to  music  and  sung  with  enthusiasm  by  the  chief  vocalists  «3t 
the  day. 

The  following  is  a  copy  of  the  Ode  in  its  original  state: — 


THE  BATTLE  OF  COPENHAGEN. 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North 

Sing  the  day! 

When,  their  haughty  powers  to  vex, 
He  engaged  the  Danish  decks, 
And  with  twenty  floating  wrecks 

Crowned  the  fray! 

All  bright,  in  April's  sun, 

Shone  the  day! 

When  a  British  fleet  came  down, 
Through  the  islands  of  the  crown, 
And  by  Copenhagen  town 

Took  their  stay. 

*  Captain  Riou,  -justly  entitle <i  th*  gallant  and  the  good  by  Lc<rS 
Kelson,  when  lie  wrote  home  Jus  despatches. 


BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC.  73 

In  arms  the  Danish  shore 

Proudly  shone; 

By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand, 
In  a  bold  determined  hand, 
And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 

Led  them  on! 


For  Denmark  here  had  drawn 

All  her  might! 

From  her  battle-ships  so  vast 
She  had  hewn  away  the  mast, 
And  at  anchor  to  the  last 

Bade  them  fight! 


Another  noble  fleet 

Of  their  line 

Rode  out,  but  these  were  naught 
To  the  batteries,  which  they  brought 
Like  Leviathans  afloat, 

in  the  brine. 


It  was  ten  of  Thursday  mom, 

By  the  chime, 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path 
There  was  silence  deep  as  death, 
And  the  boldest  held  his  breath 

For  a  time — 


Ere  a  first  and  fatal  round 

Shook  the  flood; 
Every  Dane  looked  out  that  day, 
Like  the  red  wolf  on  his  prey, 
And  he  swore  his  flag  to  sway 

Orer  our  blood. 


Not  such  a  mind  possessed 

England's  tar; 

T  was  the  love  of  noble  game 
Set  his  oaken  heart  on  flame, 
For  to  him  't  was  all  the  same 

Sport  and  war. 


All  hands  and  eyes  on  watch, 

As  they  keep; 

By  their  motion  light  as  wings, 
.By  each  step  that  haughty  springs. 
You  might  know  them  for  the  kings 

Of  the  deep! 


76  BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC. 

'T  was  the  Edgar  first  that  smote 

Denmark's  line; 

As  her  flag  the  foremost  soared, 
Murray  stamped  his  foot  on  board, 
And  an  hundred  cannons  roared 

At  the  sign! 


Three  cheers  of  all  the  fleet 

Sung  huzza! 

Then,  from  centre,  rear,  and  van, 
Every  captain,  every  man, 
With  a  lion's  heart  began 

To  the  fray. 


O,  dark  grew  soon  the  heavens — 

For  each  gun, 
From  its  adamantine  lips, 
Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships 
Like  a  hurricane  eclipse 

Of  the  sun. 


Three  hours  the  raging  fire 

Did  not  slack; 

But  the  fourth,  their  signals  drear 
Of  distress  and  wreck  appear, 
And  the  Dane  a  feeble  cheer 

Sent  us  back. 


The  voice  decayed,  their  shots 

Slowly  boom. 

They  ceased — and  all  is  wail, 
As  they  strike  the  shattered  sail, 
Or  in  conflagration  pale 

Light  the  gloom. 


O!  death — it  was  a  sight 

Filled  our  eyes! 
But  we  rescued  many  a  crew 
From  the  waves  of  scarlet  hue, 
Ere  the  cross  of  England  flew 

O'er  her  prize. 


Why  ceased  not  here  the  strife, 

O,  yc  brave? 

Why  bleeds  old  England's  band, 
By  the  fire  of  Danish  land, 
That  smites  the  very  hand 

Stretched  to  save? 


BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC.  77 

But  the  Britons  sent  to  warn 

Denmark's  town; 
Proud  foes,  let  vengeance  sleep ' 
If  another  chain-shot  sweep — 
All  our  navy  in  the  deep 

Shall  go  down! 

Then,  peace  instead  of  death 

Let  us  bring! 

If  you  '11  yield  your  conquered  fleet, 
With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 
And  make  submission  meet 

To  our  king! 

Then  death  withdrew  his  pall 

From  the  day; 

And  the  sun  looked  smiling  bright 
On  a  wide  and  woful  sight, 
Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 

Died  away. 

Yet  all  amidst  her  wrecks, 

And  her  gore, 

Proud  Denmark  blest  our  chief 
That  he  gave  her  wounds  relief; 
And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 

Filled  her  shore. 

All  round,  outlandish  cries 

Loudly  broke; 
But  a  nobler  note  was  rung, 
When  the  British,  old  and  young, 
To  their  bands  of  music  sung 

"  Hearts  of  oak!" 

Cheer!  cheer!  from  park  and  tower 

London  town! 

When  the  king  shall  ride  in  state 
From  St.  James's  royal  gate, 
And  to  all  his  peers  relate 

Our  renown! 

The  bells  shall  ring!  the  day 

Shall  not  elope, 
But  a  blaze  of  cities  bright 
Shall  illuminate  the  night, 
And  the  wine-cup  shine  in  light 

As  it  flows! 


73  BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC. 

Yet— yet,  amid  the  joy 

And  uproar, 

Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep 
All  beside  thy  rocky  steep, 

Elsinore! 

Brave  hearts,  to  Britain's  weal 

Once  so  true! 

Though  death  has  quenched  your  flamt 
Yet  immortal  be  your  name! 
For  ye  died  the  death  of  fame 

With  Riou! 

Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  heav.en 

O'er  your  grave! 
While  the  billow  mournful  rolls, 
And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles, 
Singing— glory  to  the  souls 

Of  the  brave! 


ON  SENDING  REINFORCEMENTS.  79 

EPIGRAM, 

ON  THKEE  YOUNG   LADIES,    HIS   PUPILS. 

To  be  instructed  by  the  Graces, 

Let  other  bards  their  favor  sue ; 
But  when  I  view  your  learning  faces, 
Dear  Mary,  Fanny,  Caroline, 
A  more  delightful  boast  is  mine ; 
I  teach  the  Graces  while  I  ?m  teaching  you. 

1809. 


ON  SENDING  REINFORCEMENTS 

TO   THE   ENGLISH   AKMIES   IN    SPA IX. 

As  recruits,  in  these  times,  are  not  easily  got, 

And  the  Marshal  must  have  them,  pray  why  should 

we  not, 
As  the  last — and  I  grant   you  the   worst — of  our 

loans  to  him, 

Ship  off  the  whole  Ministry,  body  and  bones,  to  him  ? 
There's  not  in  all  England,  I'll  venture  to  swear, 
Any  men  we  could  half  so  conveniently  spare  ; 
And,  though  they've  been  helping  the  French  for 

years  past, 

We  may  thus  make  them  useful  to  England  at  last : — 
Castlereagh,  in  our  sieges,  might  save  some  disgraces, 
Being  versed  in  the  taking,  and  keeping,  of  places ; 
And  Chancellor  Eldon,  still  canting  and  A\  Inning, 
Might  show  off  his  talents,  in  sly  undermining; 
Could  the  Household  but  spare  us  its  glory  ;>.nd  pride, 
Old  H — f — t  at  horn-works,  again  might  he  tried, 
And  the  Chief-Justice  make  a  bold  charge  at  his  side ; 


£0  THE  CRUEL  SEMPSTRESS. 

While  Vansittart  might  victual  the  troops  upon  tick, 
And  the  Doctor  look  after  the  baggage  and  sick. 

ISTay,  I  do  not  see  why  the  great  Regent  himself 
Should,  in  times  such  as  these,  lie  at  home  on  the 

shelf; 

Though  in  narrow  denies  he's  not  fitted  to  pass, 
Yet,  who  could  resist,  if  he  bore  down  en  masse  ? 
And  though,  of  an  evening,  he  sometimes  might 

prove, 

Like  our  brave  Spanish  Allies,  '  unable  to  move !' 
Yet  one  thing  there  is,  of  advantage  unbounded, 
Which  is — that  he  could  not  with  ease  be  sur- 
rounded.— 

In  my  next,  I  shall  sing  of  their  arms  and  equip- 
ment; 

At  present  no   more — but  good  luck  to  the  ship- 
ment! 

1613. 


THE  CRUEL  SEMPSTRESS; 

Oil.  A  RIGHT  PITEOUS  AND  HEROIC  TRAGEDY,  IX  THE 
MANNER  OF  MISTER  WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

Prince.  .  .  .  OH,  picture  in  the  gallery  of  your 

thoughts 

Me  asked  to  dine  abroad  :  shaved,  toiletted, 
Busked  brave  in  silken  hose,  and  glossy  shoon ; 
But,  rummaging  my  wardrobe — struck  aghast, 
To  find  no  wearable  untattered  shirt ! 
Obliged  to  ring  the  bell,  and  call  my  boy, 
And  send  him  with  a  scribbled  note,  as  sad 
As  nightingale's  lamenting  for  her  young, 
To  say  I  cannot  come  !  to  frame  a  fib— 
A  white  one  in  my  black  despair,  and  sealed 


THE  BATTLE-MORN.  81 

"With  wax  as  ruddy  as  the  drops  of  blood 

That  visit  this  sad  heart !     No  Burgundy 

For  me  this  day,  nor  bright  champagne,  blanc-munge, 

Nor  jelly  !     Nor  can  fancy  fill  the  void 

Of  thwarted  hope  by  figuring  a  lost  feast : 

Or  who  can  treat  his  palate  to  champagne 

By  merely  thinking  of  its  sparkling  bubbles  ? 

And  who  can  put  a  shirt  upon  his  back 

By  barely  thinking  of  a  shirt  ?  .  .  .  . 


THE  BATTLE-MORN. 

A  TROUBADOUR  SOXG  FOR  -WATERLOO. 

I  HAVE  buckled  the  sword  to  my  side, 
I  have  woke  at  the  sound  of  the  drum ; 
For  the  banners  of  France  are  descried, 
And  the  day  of  the  battle  is  come ! 
Thick  as  dew-drops  bespangling  the  grass 
Shine  our  arms  o'er  the  field  of  renown  ; 
And  the  sun  looks  on  thousands,  alas  ! 
That  will  never  behold  him  go  down. 

Oh,  my  saint !     Oh,  my  mistress !  this  morn. 
On  thy  name  how  I  rest  like  a  charm  ! 
Every  dastard  sensation  to  scorn 
In  the  moment  of  death  and  alarm  ! 
For  what  are  those  foemen  to  fear, 
Or  the  death-shot  descending  to  crush, 
Like  the  thought  that  the  cheek  of  my  dear, 
For  a  stain  on  my  honor  should  blush  ? 

Fallen  chiefs,  when  the  battle  is  o'er, 
Shall  to  glory  their  ashes  intrust, 
While  the  heart  that  loves  thee  to  its  core, 
May  be  namelessly  laid  in  the  dust ! 
D* 


S2  CHARADES. 

Yet  content  to  the  combat  I  go, 

Let  my  love  in  thy  memory  rest ; 

Nor  my  name  shall  be  lost — for  I  know 

That  it  lives  in  the  shrine  of  thy  breast ! — 

1815 


CHARADES.     1829. 

COME  from  my  first,  aye  come ! 

The  battle  dawn  is  nigh ; 
And  the  screaming  trump  and  the  thundering  drum 

Are  calling  thee  to  die ! 

Fight  as  thy  fathers  fought ! 

Fall  as  thy  fathers  fell ! 
Thy  task  is  taught — thy  shroud  is  wrought — 

So,  forward,  and  farewell ! 

Toll  ye  my  second,  toll ! 

Fling  high  the  flambeau's  light, 
And  sing  ye  the  hymn  of  a  parted  soul ! 


What  do  the  stricken-blind  and  wise 
,  In  common        They  philosophize  !     (Feel  loss  of 
eyes  !) 


FRAGMENT  FROM  THE  "  RHENISH 
BARON." 

AX  TTSTIXISHED  POEM. 

....  the  Abbot's  mien  was  high, 
And  fiery  black  his  persecuting  eye ; 
And  swarthy  his  complexion — void  of  bloom, 
As  if  the  times  had  steeped  it  in  their  gloom. 


FRAGMENT.  83 

No  butt  for  sophists,  they  got  back  from  him 
Shafts  venomous  with  zeal  and  winged  with  whim  : 
For  he  had  wit — 't  was  whispered  even  to  shine 
In  merriment,  and  joys  not  quite  divine 
His  bigotry  itself  had  something  gay, 
A  tiger's  strength — exuberant  even  to  play. 
But — make  him  serious !  and  how  trivial  then 
Was  all  the  gravity  of  other  men 
Compared  to  his  !    At  the  High  Mass,  you  saw 
His  presence  deepening  the  mysterious  awe. 
What — though  his  creed,  a  Babel  structure,  frow::cd 
In  human  pride,  usurping  Scripture  ground, 
His  preaching  terrified  the  heart  to  scan 
Its  faith,  and  stunned  the  reasoning  powers  of  man ; 
Yet  still  the  effect  was  awful,  and  the  mind 
Was  kindled  by  the  flash  it  left  behind. 
Wild  legends,  relics,  things  grotesque  and  naught, 
He  made  them  great  by  passions  which  he  wrougl  i  r ; 
Till  visions  crossed  the  wrapt  enthusiast's  glance, 
And  all  the  scene  became  a  waking  trance  ! 
Then  tears  of  pictured  saints  appeared  to  iall — 
Then  written  texts  seemed  speaking  from  the  wall : 
The  hallelujah  burst — the  tapers  blazed — 
With  more  than  earthly  pomp :  and  Bernard  raised 
A  voice  that  rilled  the  abbey  with  its  tones, 
Till  fancy  dreamt  the  very  tombs  and  stones 
Of  Martyrs,  glaring  through  the  aisle's  long  track, 
Were  conscious  of  the  sounds  they  echoed  back ! 

1833. 


84  LOKD  ULLIN'S  DAUGHTER. 


LORD  ULLIN'S  DAUGHTER. 

A  CHIEFTAIX,  to  the  Highlands  bound, 
Cries,  "  Boatman,  do  not  tarry ! 

And  I  '11  give  thee  a  silver  pound, 
To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry." — 

"  Now  who  be  ye,  would  cross  Lochgyle 
This  dark  and  stormy  water?" 

"  0,  I  'm  the  chief  of  Ulva's  isle, 
And  this  Lord  Ullin's  daughter. — 

And  fast  before  her  father's  men 
Tliree  days  we  've  fled  together, 

Tor  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen, 
My  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 

His  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride ; 

Should  they  our  steps  discover, 
Then  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride 

When  they  have  slain  her  lover  f— 

Out  spoke  the  hardy  Highland  wight, 
"  I  '11  go,  my  chief — I  'm  ready  :— 

It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright  j 
But  for  your  winsome  lady  : 

And  by  my  word  !  the  bonny  bird 

In  danger  shall  not  tarry : 
So  though  the  waves  are  raging  white, 

I  '11  row  you  o'er  the  ferry." — 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace, 
The  water-wraith  was  shrieking ; 

And  in  the  scowl  of  heaven  each  luce 
Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 


LORD  ULLIX'S  DAUGHTER. 

JBut  still  as  wilder  blew  the  wind, 

And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 
Adown  the  glen  rode  armed  men, 

Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 

*'  Oh  haste  thee,  haste !"  the  lady  cries, 
"Though  tempests  round  us  gather; 

I  '11  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies, 
But  not  an  angry  father.'7 — 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 

A  stormy  sea  before  her, — 
"When,  oh  I  too  strong  for  human  hand, 

The  tempest  gathered  o'er  her. — 

And  still  they  rowed  amidst  the  roar 

Of  waters  fast  prevailing  r 
Xord  Ullin  reached  that  fatal  shore, 

His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. — 

For  sore  dismayed,  through  storm  and  shade, 

His  child  he  did  discover: — 
One  lovely  hand  she  stretched  for  aid, 

And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

"Come  back  !  come  back !"  he  cried  in  grief, 

"  Across  this  stormy  water: 
And  I  '11  forgive  your  Highland  chief, 

My  daughter! — oh,  my  daughter!" — 

*T  was  vain :  the  loud  waves  lashed  the  shore, 

Return  or  aid  preventing: — 
The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child, 

And  he  was  left  lamenting. 

1804. 


80  ODE  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  BURNS. 


ODE  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  BURNS 

SOUL  of  the  Poet !  wheresoe'er, 
Reclaimed  from  earth,  thy  genius  plume 
Her  \vings  of  immortality ; 
Suspend  thy  harp  in  happier  sphere, 
And  with  thine  influence  illume 
The  gladness  of  our  jubilee. 

And  fly  like  fiends  from  secret  spell, 
Discord  and  Strife,  at  BURXS'S  name, 
Exorcised  by  his  memory ; 
For  he  was  chief  of  bards  that  swell 
The  heart  with  songs  of  social  flame, 
And  high  delicious  revelry. 

And  Love's  own  strain  to  him  was  given, 

To  warble  all  its  ecstacies 

With  Pythian  words  unsought,  unwilled,-— 

Love,  the  surviving  gift  of  Heaven, 

The  choicest  sweet  of  Paradise, 

In  life's  else  bitter  cup  distilled. 

Who  that  has  melted  o'er  his  lay 
To  Mary's  soul,  in  Heaven  above, 
But  pictured  sees,  in  fancy  strong, 
The  landscape  and  the  livelong  day 
That  smiled  upon  their  mutual  love  ? — 
Who  that  has  felt  forgets  the  sonc- 1 

c?  o 

Nor  skilled  one  flame  alone  to  fan  : 
His  country's  high-souled  peasantry 
What  patriot-pride  he  taught ! — how  much 
To  weigh  the  inborn  worth  of  man ! 
And  rustic  life  and  poverty 
Grow  beautiful  beneath  his  touch. 


ODE  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  LULXS. 

Him,  in  his  clay-built  cot,  the  Muse 
Entranced,  and  showed  him  all  the  forms, 
Of  fairy-light  and  wizard  gloom, 
(That  only  gifted  Poet  views,) 
The  Genii  of  the  floods  and  storms, 
And  martial  shades  from  Glory's  tomb. 

On  Bannock-field  what  thoughts  arouse 

The  swain  whom  BUKNS'S  song  inspires ! 

Beat  not  his  Caledonian  veins, 

As  o'er  the  heroic  turf  he  ploughs, 

With  all  the  spirit  of  his  sires, 

And  all  their  scorn  of  death  and  chains  ? 

And  see  the  Scottish  exile,  tanned 

By  many  a  far  and  foreign  clime, 

Bend  o'er  his  home-born  verse,  and  weep 

In  memory  of  his  native  land, 

With  love  that  scorns  the  lapse  of  time, 

And  ties  that  stretch  beyond  the  deep. 

Encamped  by  Indian  rivers  wild, 

The  soldier  resting  on  his  arms, 

In  BTTKNS'S  carol  sweet  recalls 

The  scenes  that  blessed  him  when  a  cliild, 

And  glows  and  gladdens  at  the  charms 

Of  Scotia's  woods  and  waterfalls. 

O  deem  not,  'midst  this  worldly  strife, 
An  idle  art  the  Poet  brings : 
Let  high  Philosophy  contiol, 
And  sages  calm  the  stream  of  life, 
'T  is  he  refines  its  fountain-springs, 
The  nobler  passions  of  the  soul. 

It  is  the  muse  that  consecrates 
The  native  banner  of  the  brave, 
Unfurling,  at  the  trumpet's  breath, 
Rose,  thistle,  harp ;  7t  is  she  elates 


83  ODE  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  BURNS. 

To  sweep  the  field  or  ride  the  wave, 
A  sunburst  in  the  storm  of  death. 

And  thou,  young  hero,  when  thy  pall 

Is  crossed  with  mournful  sword  and  plume. 

When  public  grief  begins  to  fade, 

And  only  tears  of  kindred  fall, 

Who  but  the  bard  shall  dress  tlry  tomb, 

And  greet  with  fame  thy  gallant  shade  ? 

Snch  was  the  soldier — BUKNS,  forgive 
That  sorrows  of  mine  own  intrude 
In  strains  to  thy  great  memory  due. 
In  verse  like  thine,  oh  !  could  he  five, 
The  friend  I  mourned — the  brave — the  good—- 
Edward that  died  at  Waterloo  !* 

Farewell,  high  chief  of  Scottish  song ! 
That  couldst  alternately  impart 
Wisdom  and  rapture  in  thy  page, 
And  brand  each  vice  with  satire  strong, 
Whose  lines  are  mottoes  of  the  heart, 
Whose  truths  electrify  the  sage. 

Farewell !  and  ne'er  may  Envy  dare 
To  wring  one  baleful  poison  drop 
From  the  crashed  laurels  of  thy  bust  j 
But  while  the  lark  sings  sweet  in  air, 
Still  may  the  grateful  pilgrim  stop, 
To  bless  the  spot  that  holds  thv  dust. 

1815. 

*  Major  Edward  Hodge,  of  the  7th  Huzzars,  who  fell  at  the  head 
of  his  squadron  in  the  attack  of  the  Polish  Lancers. 


iOVE  AND  MADNESS.  89 

LOVE  AND  MADNESS. 

AX  ELEGY.   WRITTEN  IX  1795. 

HARK  !  from  the  battlements  of  yonder  tower  * 
The  solemn  bell  has  tolled  the  midnight  hour  ! 
Housed  from  drear  visions  of  distempered  sleep, 
Poor  Broderick  wakes — in  solitude  to  weep  ! 

i:  Cease,   Memory,  cease  (the  friendless  mourner 

cried) 

To  probe  the  bosom  too  severely  tried ! 
Oh  !    ever  cease,  my  pensive  thoughts,  to  stray 
Through  the  bright  fields  of  Fortune's  better  day, 
"When  youthful  HOPE,  the  music  of  the  mind, 
Tuned  all  its  charms,  and  Errington  was  kind  ! 

Yet;  can  I  cease,  while   glows  this  trembling- 

frame, 

In  sighs  to  speak  thy  melancholy  name  ! 
I  hear  thy  spirit  wail  in  every  storm ! 
In  midnight  shades  I  view  thy  passing  form  ! 
Pale  as  in  that  sad  hour  when  doomed  to  feel ! 
Deep  in  thy  perjured  heart,  the  bloody  steel ! 

Demons  of  Vengeance  !  ye,  at  whose  command 
I  grasped  the  sword  with  more  than  woman's  hand 
Say  ye,  did  Pity's  trembling  voice  control, 
Or  horror  damp  the  purpose  of  my  soul  ? 
No  !  my  wild  heart  sat  smiling  o'er  the  plan, 
Till  Hate  fulfilled  what  baffled  love  began  ! 

Yes ;  let  the  clay-cold  breast  that  never  knew 
One  tender  pang  to  generous  nature  tine, 

*  Warwick  Castle. 


00  LOVE  AND 

Half-iningling  pity  with  the  gall  of  scorn, 
Condemn  this  heart,  that  bled  in  love  forlorn  ! 

And  ye,   proud  fair,   whose  soul   no  gladness 

warms, 

Save  Rapture's  homage  to  your  conscious  charms ! 
Delighted  idols  of  a  gaudy  train, 
111  can  your  blunter  feelings  guess  the  pain, 
When  the  fond,  faithful  heart,  inspired  to  prove 
Friendship  refined,  the  calm  delight  of  Love, 
Feels  all  its  tender  strings  with  anguish  torn, 
And  bleeds  at  perjured  Pride's  inhuman  scorn. 

Say,   then,   did   pitying  Heaven  condemn  tho 

deed, 

When  Vengeance  bade  thee,  faithless  lover !  bleed  ? 
Long  had  I  watched  thy  dark  foreboding  brow. 
What  time  thy  bosom  scorned  its  dearest  vow  ! 
Sad,  though  I  wept  the  friend,  the  lover  changed, 
Still  thy  cold  look  was  scornful  and  estranged, 
Till  from  thy  pity,  love,  and  shelter  thrown, 
I  wandered  hopeless,  friendless,  and  alone  ! 

Oh  !  righteous  Heaven  !  't  was  then  my  tortured 

soul 

First  gave  to  wrath  unlimited  control ! 
Adieu  the  silent  look  !  the  streaming  eye  ! 

The    murmured  plaint!     the   deep     heart-heaving 
•vi 
sigh! 

Long-slumbering  Vengeance  wakes  to  better  deeds  ; 
He  shrieks,  he  falls,  the  perjured  lover  bleeds  ! 
Now  the  last  laugh  of  agony  is  o'er, 
And  pale  in  blood  he  sleeps,  to  wake  no  more ! 

'T  is  done !  the  flame  of  hate  no  longer  burns : 
Nature  relents,  but,  ah  !  too  late  returns ! 
Why  does  my  soul  this  gush  of  fondness  feel  ? 
Trembling  and  faint,  I  drop  the  guilty  steel ! 


LOVE  AND  MADNESS.  91 

Cold  on  my  heart  the  hand  of  terror  lies, 
And  shades  of  horror  close  my  languid  eyes  ! 

Oh  !  Jt  was  a  deed  of  Murder's  deepest  grain  ! 
Could  Broderick's  soul  so  true  to  wrath  remain  I 
A  friend  long  true,  a  once  fond  lover  fell  ? 
Where  Love  was  fostered  could  not  Pity  dwell  ? 

Unhappy  youth  !  while  yon  pale  crescent  glows 
To  watch  on  silent  Nature's  deep  repose, 
Thy  sleepless  spirit,  breathing  from  the  tomb, 
Foretells  my  fate,  and  summons  me  to  come  ! 
Once  more  I  see  thy  sheeted  spectre  stand, 
Roll  the  dim  eye,  and  wave  the  paly  hand  ! 

Soon  may  this  fluttering  spark  of  vital  flame 
Forsake  its  languid  melancholy  frame  ! 
Soon  may  these  eyes  their  trembling  lustre  close, 
Welcome  the  dreamless  night  of  long  repose ! 
Soon  may  this  woe-worn  spirit  seek  the  bourne 
Where,  lulled  to  slumber,  Grief  forgets  to  mourn  P 


3f<J  TO  THE  RAINBOW. 


TO   THE  RAINBOW. 

TRIUMPHAL  arch,  that  filPst  the  sky- 
When  storms  prepare  to  part, 

I  ask  not  proud  Philosophy 
To  teach  me  what  thou  art — 

Still  seem,  as  to  my  childhood's  sight, 

A  midway  station  given 
For  happy  spirits  to  alight 

Betwixt  the  earth  and.  heaven. 

Can  all  that  Optics  teach,  unfold 

Thy  form  to  please  me  so, 
As  when  I  dreamt  of  gems  and  gold. 

Hid  in  thy  radiant  bow  I 

When  Science  from  Creation's  face 
Enchantment's  veil  withdraws, 

What  lovely  visions  yield  their  place 
To  cold  material  laws  ! 

And  yet,  fair  bow,  no  fabling  dreams, 
But  words  of  the  Most  High, 

Have  told  why  first  thy  robe  of  beams 
Was  woven  in  the  sky. 

When  o'er  the  green  undeluged  earth 
Heaven's  covenant  thou  didst  shine, 

How  came  the  world's  gray  fathers  forth' 
To  watch  thy  sacred  sign  ! 

And  when  its  yellow  lustre  smiled 

O'er  mountains  yet  untrod, 
Each  mother  held  aloft  her  child 

To  bless  the  bow  of  God. 


THE  LAST  MAN. 

Metbinks,  thy  jubilee  to  keep, 
The  first-made  anthem  rang 
On  -earth  delivered  from  the  deep, 
And  the  first  poet  sang. 

Xor  ever  shall  the  Muse's  eye 
Un  raptured  greet  thy  beam ; 

Theme  of  primeval  prophecy, 
Be  still  the  prophet's  theme  ! 

The  earth  to  thee  her  incense  yields, 
The  lark  thy  welcome  sings, 

When  glittering  in  the  freshened  fields 
The  snowy  mushroom  springs. 

How  glorious  is  thy  girdle,  cast 
O'er  mountain,  tower,  and  town, 

Or  mirrored  in  the  ocean  vast, 
A  thousand  fattoms  down ! 

As  fresh  in  yon  horizon  dark,         N 
As  young  thy  beauties  seem, 

As  when  the  eagle  from  the  ark 
First  sported  in  thy  beam : 

For,  faithful  to  its  sacred  page, 
Heaven  still  rebuilds  thy  span, 

Xor  lets  the  type  grow  pale  with  age 
That  first  spoke  peace  to  man. 


THE  LAST  MAN. 

ALL  worldly  shapes  shall  melt  in  gloom, 

The  Sun  himself  must  die, 
Before  this  mortal  shall  assume 

Its  Immortality ! 


94  THE  LAST  MAN. 

I  saw  a  vision  in  my  sleep, 

That  gave  my  spirit  strength  to  sweep 

Adown  the  gulf  of  Time ! 
I  saw  the  last  of  human  mould 
That  shall  Creation's  death  behold, 

As  Adam  saw  her  prime ! 

The  Sun's  eye  had  a  sickly  glare, 

The  Earth  with  age  was  wan, 
The  skeletons  of  nations  were 

Around  that  lonely  man  ! 
Some  had  expired  in  fight, — the  brands 
Still  rusted  in  their  bony  hands 

In  plague  and  famine  some ! 
Earth's  cities  had  no  sound  nor  tread ; 
And  ships  were  drifting  with  the  dead 

To  shores  where  all  was  dumb  ! 

Yet,  prophet  like,  that  lone  one  stood, 

With  dauntless  words  and  high, 
That  shook  the  sere  leaves  from  the  wood 

As  if  a  storm  passed  by, 
Saying,  We  are  twins  in  death,  proud  Sun  ! 
Thy  face  is  cold,  thy  race  is  run, 

'Tis  Mercy  bids  thee  go ; 
For  thou  ten  thousand  thousand  years 
Hast  seen  the  tide  of  human  tears, 

That  shall  no  longer  flow. 

What  though  beneath  thee  man  put  forth 

His  pomp,  his  pride,  his  skill ; 
And  arts  that  made  fire,  flood,  and  earth, 

The  vassals  of  his  will  ? — 
Yet  mourn  I  not  thy  parted  sway, 
Thou  dim  discrowned  king  of  day  5 

For  all  those  trophied  arts 
And  triumphs  that  beneath  thee  sprang, 
Healed  not  a  passion  or  a  pang 

Entailed  on  human  hearts. 


THE  LAST  MAN.  95 

Go,  let  oblivion's  curtain  fall 

Upon  the  stage  of  men, 
Nor  with  thy  rising  beams  recall 

Life's  tragedy  again : 
Its  piteous  pageants  bring  not  back, 
Nor  waken  flesh,  upon  the  rack 

Of  pain  anew  to  writhe ; 
Stretched  in  disease's  shapes  abhorred, 
Or  mown  in  battle  by  the  sword. 

Like  grass  beneath  the  scythe. 

Even  I  am  weary  in  yon  skies 

To  watch  thy  fading  fire ; 
Test  of  all  sumless  agonies, 

Behold  not  me  expire. 
My  lips  that  speak  thy  dirge  of  death — 
Their  rounded  gasp  and  gurgling  Itreath 

To  see  thou  shalt  not  boast. 
The  eclipse  of  Nature  spreads  iny  pall, 
The  majesty  of  Darkness  shall 

Receive  my  parting  ghost ! 

This  spirit  shall  return  to  Him 

Who  gave  its  heavenly  spark  ; 
Yet  think  not,  Sun,  it  shall  be  dim 

When  thou  thyself  art  dark  ! 
No  !  it  shall  live  again,  and  shine 
In  bliss  unknown  to  beams  of  thine, 

By  him  recalled  to  breath, 
Who  captive  led  captivity, 
Who  robbed  the  grave  of  Victory, — 

And  took  the  sting  from  Death ! 

Go,  Sun,  while  Mercy  holds  me  up 

On  Nature's  awful  waste 
To  drink  this  last  and  bitter  cup 

Of  grief  that  man  shall  taste — 
Go,  tell  the  night  that  hides  thy  face, 
Thou  saVst  the  last  of  Adam's  race, 


9C  A  DREAM. 


On  Earth's  sepulchral  clod, 
The  darkening  universe  defy 
To  quench  his  Immortality, 

Or  shake  his  trust  in  God ! 

1828. 


A  DREAM. 

WELL  may  sleep  present  us  fictions, 

Since  our  waking  moments  teem 
With  such  fanciful  convictions 

As  make  life  itself  a  dream. — 
Half  our  daylight  faith  a  fable ; 

Sleep  disports  with  shadows  too, 
Seeming  in  their  turn  as  stable 

As  the  world  we  wake  to  view. 
Xe'er  by  day  did  Reason's  mint 
Give  my  thoughts  a  clearer  print 
<  )f  assured  reality, 
Than  was  left  by  Phantasy 
Stamped  and  colored  on  my  sprite, 
In  a  dream  of  yesternight. 

In  a  bark,  methought,  lone  steering, 

I  was  cast  on  Ocean's  strife ; 
This  7t  was  whispered  in  my  hearing, 

Meant  the  sea  of  life. 
Sad  regrets  from  past  existence 

Came  like  gales  of  chilling  breath ; 
Shadowed  in  the  forward  distance 

Lay  the  land  of  Death. 
Xow  seeming  more,  now  less  remote, 
On  that  dim-seen  shore,  methought, 
1  beheld  two  hands  a  'space 
Slow  unshroud  a  spectre's  face ; 
And  my  flesh's  hairupstood, — 
}T  was  mine  own  similitude. — 


A  DREAM.  07 

But  my  soul  revived  at  seeing 

Ocean,  like  an  emerald  spark, 
Kindle,  while  an  air-dropt  being 

Smiling  steered  my  bark 
Heaven-like — yet  he  looked  as  human 

As  supernal  beauty  can, 
More  compassionate  than  woman, 

Lordly  more  than  man. 
And  as  some  sweet  clarion's  breath 
Stirs  the  soldier's  scorn  of  death — 
So  his  accents  bade  me  brook 
The  spectre's  eyes  of  icy  look, 
Till  it  shut  them — turned  its  head, 
Like  a  beaten  foe,  and  fled. 

"  Types  not  this,"  I  said,  "  fair  spirit ! 

That  my  death  hour  is  not  come  ? 
Say,  what  days  shall  I  inherit  ? — 

Tell  my  soul  their  sum." 
"No,"  he  said,  "yon  phantom's  aspect, 

Trust  me  would  appall  thee  worse, 
Held  in  clearly  measured  prospect : — 

Ask  not  for  a  curse  ! 
Make  not,  for  I  overhear 
Thine  unspoken  thoughts  as  clear 
As  thy  mortal  ear  could  catch 
The  close-brought  tickings  of  a  watch- 
Make  not  the  untold  request 
That's  now  revolving  in  thy  breast. 

'T  is  to  live  again,  remeasuring 

Youth's  years  like  a  scene  rehearsed, 
In  thy  second  life-time  treasuring 

Knowledge  from  the  first. 
Hast  thou  felt,  poor  self-deceiver ! 

Life's  career  so  void  of  pain, 
As  to  wish  its  fitful  fever 

New  begun  again '? 
E 


93  VALEDICTORY  STANZAS. 

Could  experience,  ten  times  thine, 
Pain  from  Being  disentwine — 
Threads  by  Fate  together  spun  ! 
Could  thy  flight  Heaven's  lightning  shun  f 
No,  nor  could  thy  foresight's  glance 
'Scape  the  myriad  shafts  of  Chance. 

Would'st  thou  bear  again  Love's  trouble — 

Friendship's  death-dissevered  ties ; 
Toil  to  grasp  or  miss  the  bubble 

Of  Ambition's  prize  ? 
Say  thy  life's  new  guided  action 

Flowed  from  Virtue's  fairest  springs — 
Still  would  Envy  and  Detraction 

Double  not  their  stings  ? 
Worth  itself  is  but  a  charter 
To  be  mankind's  distinguished  martyr.'1 
— I  caught  the  moral,  and  cried,  "  Hail ! 
Spirit!  let  us  onward  sail 
Envying,  fearing,  hating  none — 
Guardian  Spirit,  steer  me  on  !" 

1824. 


VALEDICTORY  STANZAS. 

TO  J.  P.  KEMBLE,  ESQ. 

COMPOSED  FOll  A  I'UBLIC  MEETING,  HELD  JUNE,  1817. 

PRIDE  of  the  British  stage, 

A  long  and  last  adieu ! 
Whose  image  brought  th'  heroic  age 

Revived  to  Fancy's  view. 
Like  fields  refreshed  with  dewy  light 

When  the  sun  smiles  his  last, 
Thy  parting  presence  makes  more  bright 

Our  memory  of  the  past ; 


VALEDICTORY  STANZAS.  99 

And  memory  conjures  feelings  up 
That  wine  or  music  need  not  swell, 

As  high  we  lift  the  festal  cup 
To  Kemble — fare  thee  well! 

His  was  the  swell  o'er  hearts 

Which  only  Acting  lends, — 
The  youngest  of  the  sister  Arts, 

Where  all  their  beauty  blends : 
For  ill  can  Poetry  express 

Full  many  a  tone  of  thought  sublime1, 
And  Painting,  mute  and  motionless, 

Steals  but  a  glance  of  time. 
But  by  the  mighty  actor  brought, 

Illusion's  perfect  triumphs  come, — 
Verse  ceases  to  be  airy  thought, 

And  Sculpture  to  be  dumb. 

Time  may  again  revive, 

But  ne'er  eclipse  the  charm, 
When  Cato  spoke  in  him  alive, 

Or  Hotspur  kindled  warm. 
What  soul  was  not  resigned  entire 

To  the  deep  sorrows  of  the  Moor, — 
What  English  heart  was  not  on  fire 

With  him  at  Agincourt  ? 
And  yet  a  majesty  possessed 

His  transport's  most  impetuous  tone, 
And  to  each  passion  of  the  breast 

The  Graces  gave  their  zone. 

High  were  the  task — too  high, 

Ye  conscious  bosoms  here ! 
In  words  to  paint  your  memory 

Of  Kemble  and  of  Lear ; 
But  who  forgets  that  white  discrowned  head. 

Those  bursts  of  Reason's  half-extinguished  glare. 
Those  tears  upon  Cordelia's  bosom  shed, 
In  doubt  more  touching  than  despair, 


Ilia  VALEDICTORY  STANZAS. 

If  't  was  reality  he  felt  ? 

Had  Shakspeare's  self  amidst  y:>:i  been, 
Friends,  he  had  seen  you  melt, 

And  triumphed  to  have  seen ! 

And  there  was  many  an  hour 

Of  blended  kindred  fame, 
Vriien  Siddons's  auxiliar  power 

And  sister  magic  came. 
Together  at  the  Muse's  side 

The  tragic  paragons  had  grown — 
They  were  the  children  of  her  pride, 

The  columns  of  her  throne, 
And  undivided  favor  ran 

From  heart  to  heart  in  their  applause, 
Save  for  the  gallantry  of  man 

In  lovelier  woman's  cause. 

Fair  as  some  classic  dome, 

llobust  and  richly  graced, 
Your  KE^BLE'S  spirit  was  the  home 

( )f  genius  and  of  taste ; 
Taste,  like  the  silent  dial's  power, 

That,  when  supernal  light  is  given, 
Can  measure  inspiration's  hour, 

And  tell  its  height  in  heaven. 
At  once  ennobled  and  correct, 

His  mind  surveyed  the  tragic  page, 
And  what  the  actor  could  effect, 
.  The  scholar  could  presage. 

These  were  his  traits  of  worth  : 

And  must  we  lose  them  now ! 
And  shall  the  scene  no  more  show  forth 

His  sternly -pleasing  brow ! 
Alas,  the  moral  brings  a  tear ! — 

'T  is  all  a  transient  hour  below ; 
And  we  that  would  detain  thee  here, 

Ourselves  as  fleetly  go  ! 


VALEDICTORY  STANZAS.  101 

Yet  shall  our  latest  age 

This  parting  scene  review : 
Pride  of  the  British  stage, 

A  long  and  last  adieu  ! 


GEBTRUDE    OF    WYOMING. 

IN  THREE  PARTS. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

Host  of  the  popular  histories  of  England,  as  well  as  of  the 
.Ajnerican  war.  give  an  authentic  account  of  the  desolation  of 
\Tyoming,  in  Pennsylvania,  which  took  place  in  1778,  by  an  in- 
cursion of  the  Indians.  The  scenery  and  incidents  of  the  follow- 
ing Poem  are  connected  with  that  event.  The  testimonies  of 
historians  and  travellers  concur  in  describing  tiie  infant  colony 
as  one  of  the  happiest  spots  of  human  existence,  for  the  hospita- 
ble and  innocent  manners  of  the  inhabitants,  the  beauty  of  the 
country,  and  the  luxuriant  fertility  of  the  soil  and  climate.  In 
an  evil  hour,  the  junction  of  European  with  Indian  arms  con- 
verted this  terrestrial  paradise  into  a  frightful  waste.  Mr.  ISAAC 
WELD  informs  us,  that  the  ruins  of  many  of  the  villages,  perfo- 
rated with  balls,  and  bearing  marks  of  conflagration,  were  still 
preserved  by  the  recent  inhabitants,  when  he  travelled  through 
America  in  1796. 


GEKTKUDE  OF  WYOMING. 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 


PAKT   I. 
I. 

ON  Susquehanna's  side,  fair  "Wyoming  ', 
Although  the  wild-flower  on  thy  ruined  wall, 
And  roofless  homes,  a  sad  remembrance  bring 
Of  what  thy  gentle  people  did  befall ; 
Yet  thou  wert  once  the  loveliest  land  of  all 
That  see  the  Atlantic  wave  their  morn  restore. 
Sweet  land !  may  I  thy  lost  delights  recall, 
And  paint  thy  Gertrude  in  her  bowers  of  yore, 
Whose  beauty  was  the  love  of  Pennsylvania's  shore. 

II. 

Delightful  Wyoming  !  beneath  thy  skies, 
The  happy  shepherd  swains  had  nought  to  do 
But  feed  their  flocks  on  green  declivities, 
Or  skim  perchance  thy  lake  with  light  canoe, 
From  morn  till  evening's  sweeter  pastime  grew, 
With  timbrel,  when  beneath  the  forest  brown, 
Thy  lovely  maidens  would  the  dance  renew  ; 
And  aye  those  sunny  mountains  half-way  do\vn 
Would  echo  flagelet  from  some  romantic  town. 

in. 

Then,  where  of  Indian  hills  the  daylight  takes 
His  leave,  how  might  you  the  flamingo  see 
Disporting  like  a  meteor  on  the  lakes — 
And  playful  squirrel  on  his  nut-grown  tree : 
And  every  sound  of  life  was  full  of  glee, 


104  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 

From  merry  mock-bird's  song,  or  hum  of  men ; 
While  hearkening,  fearing  nought  their  revelry, 
The  wild  deer  arched  his  neck  from  glades,  and  then, 
Unhunted,  sought  his  woods  and  wilderness  again. 


IV. 

And  scarce  had  Wyoming  of  war  or  crime 
Heard,  but  in  transatlantic  stoiy  rung, 
For  here  the  exile  met  from  every  clime, 
And  spoke  in  friendship  every  distant  tongue : 
Men  from  the  blood  of  warring  Europe  sprung 
Were  but  divided  by  the  running  brook ; 
And  happy  where  no  Rhenish  trumpet  sung, 
On  plains  no  sieging  mine's  volcano  shook, 
The  blue-eyed  German  changed  his  sword  to  prun» 
ing-hook. 

v. 

Nor  far  some  Andalusiau  saraband 
Would  sound  to  many  a  native  roundelay — 
But  who  is  he  that  yet  a  dearer  land 
Remembers,  over  hills  and  far  away  ? 
Green  Albin  !*  what  though  he  no  more  survey 
Thy  ships  at  anchor  on  the  quiet  shore, 
Thy  pellochst  rolling  from  the  mountain  bay, 
Thy  lone  sepulchral  cairn  upon  the  moor, 
And  distant  isles  that  hear  the  loud  CorbrechtanJ 
roar! 

VI. 

Alas !  poor  Caledonia's  mountaineer, 
That  want's  stern  edict  e'er,  and  feudal  grief, 
Had  forced  him  from  a  home  he  loved  so  dear  ! 
Yet  found  he  here  a  home  and  glad  relief, 

*  Scotland . 

t  The  Gaelic  appellation  for  the  porpoise. 

$  The  great  whirlpool  of  the  western  Hebrides. 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING.  lor> 

And  plied  the  beverage  from  his  own  fair  sheaf, 
That  fired  his  highland  blood  with  mickle  glee : 
And  England  sent  her  men,  of  men  the  chief,  , 

Who  taught  those  sires  of  Empire  yet  to  be, 
To  plant  the  tree  of  life, — to  plant  fair  Freedom's 
tree ! 

VII. 

Here  was  not  mingled  in  the  city's  pomp 
Of  life's  extremes  the  grandeur  and  the  gloom ; 
Judgment  awoke  not  here  her  dismal  tromp, 
Nor  sealed  in  blood  a  fellow  creature's  doom, 
Nor  mourned  the  captive  in  a  living  tomb. 
One  venerable  man,  beloved  of  all, 
Sufficed,  where  innocence  was  yet  in  bloom, 
To  sway  the  strife,  that  seldom  might  befall : 
And  Albert  was  their  judge,  in  patriarchal  hall. 


VIII. 

How  reverend  was  the  look,  serenely  aged, 
He  bore,  this  gentle  Pennsylvanian  sire, 
Where  all  but  kindly  fervors  were  assuaged, 
Undimmed  by  weakness'  shade,  or  turbid  ire ! 
And  though,  amidst  the  calm  of  thought  entire, 
Some  high  and  haughty  features  might  betray, 
A  soul  impetuous  once,  't  was  earthly  fire 
That  fled  composure's  intellectual  ray, 
As  ^Etna's  fires  grow  dim  before  the  rising  day. 


IX. 

I  boast  no  song  in  magic  wonders  rife, 

But  yet,  oh,  Nature !  is  there  nought  to  prize, 

Familiar  in  thy  bosom  scenes  of  life  ? 

And  dwells  in  daylight  truth's  salubrious  skies 

No  form  with  which  the  soul  may  sympathize  "?— 

Young,  innocent,  on  whose  sweet  forehead  mild 


1C  j  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 

The  parted  ringlet  shone  in  simplest  guise. 
An  inmate  in  the  home  of  Albert  smiled, 
Or  blessed  his  noonday  walk — she  was   his   only 
child. 


The  rose  of  England  bloomed  on  Gertrude's  cheek — 
What  though  these  shades  had  seen  her  birth,  her  sire 
A  Briton's  independence  taught  to  seek 
Far  western  worlds ;  and  there  his  household  fire 
The  light  of  social  love  did  long  inspire, 
And  many  a  halcyon  day  he  lived  to  see 
Unbroken  but  by  one  misfortune  dire, 
When  fate  had  reft  his  mutual  heart — but  she 
Was  gone — and  Gertrude  climbed  a  widowed  father's 
knee. 

XI. 

A  love  bequest, — and  I  may  half  impart — 

To  them  that  feel  the  strong  paternal  tie, 

How  like  a  new  existence  to  his  heart 

That  living  flower  uprose  beneath  his  eye. 

Dear  as  she  was  from  cherub  infancy, 

From  hours  when  she  would  round  his  garden  play, 

To  time  when,  as  the  ripening  years  went  by, 

Her  lovely  mind  could  culture  well  repay, 

And  more  engaging  grew,  from  pleasing  day  to  day. 


XII. 

I  may  not  paint  those  thousand  infant  charms : 
(Unconscious  fascination,  undesigned !) 
The  orison  repeated  in  his  arms, 
For  God  to  bless  her  sire  and  all  mankind ; 
The  book,  the  bosom  on  his  knee  reclined, 
Or  how  sweet  fairy-lore  he  heard  her  con, 
(The  playmate  ere  the  teacher  of  her  mind :) 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING.  17 

All  uncompanioned  else  her  heart  had  gone 
Till  now,  in  Gertrude's  eyes  their  ninth  blue  sur.uncr 
shone. 

xm. 

And  summer  was  the  tide,  and  sweet  the  hour, 
When  sire  and  daughter  saw,  with  fleet  desce:.r. 
An  Indian  from  his  bark  approach  their  bower. 
Of  buskined  limb,  and  swarthy  lineament ; 
The  red  wild  feathers  on  his  brow  were  blent, 
And  bracelets  bound  the  arm  that  helped  to  light 
A  boy,  who  seemed,  as  he  beside  him  went, 
Of  Christian  vesture,  and  complexion  bright, 
Led  by  his  dusky  guide,  like   morning  brought  by 
night. 

XIV. 

Yet  pensive  seemed  the  boy  for  one  so  young — 
The  dimple  from  his  polished  cheek  had  fled  ; 
When,  leaning  on  his  forest-bow  unstrung, 
The  Oneyda  warrior  to  the  planter  said, 
And  laid  his  hand  upon  the  stripling's  head, 
"  Peace  be  to  thee !    my  words  this  belt  approve  j 
The  paths  of  peace  my  steps  have  hither  led ; 
This  little  nursling,  take  him  to  thy  love, 
And   shield    the   bird    unfledged,    since   gone   the 
parent  dove. 

xv. 

Christian !  I  am  the  foeman  of  thy  foe ; 

Our  wampum  league  thy  brethren  did  embrace : 

Upon  the  Michigan,  three  moons  ago, 

We  launched  our  pirogues  for  the  bison  chase, 

And  with  the  Hurons  planted  for  a  space, 

With  true  and 'faithful  hands,  the  olive-stalk ; 

But  snakes  are  in  the  bosoms  of  their  race, 

And  though  they  held  with  us  a  friendly  talk, 

The  hollow  peace-tree  fell  beneath  their  tomahawk  ! 


108  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 


XVI. 

It  was  encamping1  on  the  lake's  far  port, 
A  cry  of  Areouski*  broke  our  sleep, 
Where  stormed  an  ambushed  foe  thy  nation's  fort, 
And  rapid,  rapid  whoops  came  o'er  the  deep  ; 
But  long  thy  country's  war-sign  on  the  steep 
Appeared  through  ghastly  intervals  of  light, 
And  deathfully  their  thunders  seemed  to  sweep, 
Till  utter  darkness  swallowed  up  the  sight, 
As   if  a  shower  of  blood  had  quenched  the  iierv 
fight ! 

XVII. 

It  slept — it  rose  again — on  high  their  tower 
Sprung  upwards  like  a  torch  to  light  the  skies, 
Then  down  again  it  rained  an  ember  shower, 
And  louder  lamentations  heard  we  rise  : 
As  when  the  evil  Manitou  that  dries 
Th'  Ohio  woods,  consumes  them  in  his  hv, 
In  vain  the  desolated  panther  flies, 
And  howls  amidst  his  wilderness  of  fire  : 
Alas!  too  late,  we  reached  and  smote  those  Iluroiis 
flire! 

XVIII. 

But  as  the  fox  beneath  the  nobler  hound, 
So  died  their  warriors  by  our  battle-brand  ; 
And  from  the  tree  we,  with  her  child,  unbound 
A  lonely  mother  of  the  Christian  land  : — 
Her  lord — the  captain  of  the  British  band—  • 
Amidst  the  slaughter  of  his  soldiers  lay. 
Scarce  knew  the  widow  our  delivering  hand  ; 
Upon  her  child  she  sobbed,  and  swooned  away. 
Or  shrieked  unto  the  God  to  whom  the  Christians 
pray. 

•"  The  Indian  God  of  War. 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYO: IIX:  J.  109 

XIX. 

Our  virgins  fed  her  with  their  kindly  bowls 
Of  fever-balm  and  sweet  sagamite : 
But  she  was  journeying  to  the  land  of  souls, 
And  lifted  up  her  dying  head  to  pray 
That  we  should  bid  an  ancient  friend  convoy 
Her  orphan  to  his  home  of  England's  shore ; 
And  take,  she  said,  this  token  far  away, 
To  one  that  will  remember  us  of  yore, 
When  he  beholds  the  ring  that  Waldegrave's  Julia 
wore. 

xx. 

And  I,  the  eagle  of  my  tribe,  have  rushed 
With  this  lorn  dove." — A  sage's  self-command 
Had   quelled  the   tears   from   Albert's   heart   that 

gushed ; 

But  yet  his  cheek — his  agitated  hand — 
That  showered  upon  the  stranger  of  the  land 
No  common  boon,  in  grief  but  ill  beguiled 
A  soul  that  was  not  wont  to  be  unmanned ; 
"  And  stay,"  he  cried,  "  dear  pilgrim  of  the  wild, 
Preserver  of  my  old,  my  boon  companion's  cliild ! 

XXI. 

Cliild  of  a  race  whose  name  my  bosom  warms, 
On  earth's  remotest  bounds  how  welcome  here ! 
Whose  mother  oft,  a  child,  has  filled  these  afcns, 
Young  as  thyself,  and  innocently  dear. 
Whose  grandsire  was  my  early  life's  compeer. 
Ah,  happiest  home  of  England's  happy  clime ! 
How  beautiful  even  now  thy  scenes  appear, 
As  in  the  noon  and  sunshine  of  my  prime  ! 
How  gone  like  yesterday  these  thrice  ten  years  of 
time! 

XXII. 

And  Julia !  when  thou  wert  like  Gertrude  now, 
Can  I  forget  theo,  favorite  child  of  yore  ? 


110  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 

Or  thought  I,  in  thy  father's  house,  when  thou 
Wert  lightest-hearted  on  his  festive  floor, 
And  first  of  all  his  hospitable  door 
To  meet  and  kiss  me  at  my  journey's  end  f 
But  where  was  I  when  Waldegrave  was  no  more  ? 
And  thou  didst  pale  thy  gentle  head  extend 
In   woes,  that   even   the  tribe   of  deserts  wab  thy 
friend!" 

xxm. 

He  said — and  strained  unto  his  heart  the  boy  j — 
Far  differently,  the  mute  Oneyda  took 
His  calumet  of  peace  and  cup  of  joy ; 
As  monumental  bronze  unchanged  his  look ; 
A  soul  that  pity  touched,  but  never  shook ; 
Trained  from  his  tree-rocked  cradle  to  his  bier 
The  fierce  extreme  of  good  and  ill  to  brook 
Impassive — fearing  but  the  shame  of  fear — 
A  stoic  of  the  woods — a  man  without  a  tear. 


XXIV. 

Yet  deem  not  goodness  on  the  savage  stock 
Of  Outalissi's  heart  disdained  to  grow ; 
As  lives  the  oak  unwithered  on  the  rock 
By  storms  above,  and  barrenness  below ; 
He  scorned  his  own,  who  felt  another's  woe : 
And  e/e  the  wolf-skin  on  his  back  he  flung, 
Or  laced  his  mocasins,  in  act  to  go, 
A  song  of  parting  to  the  boy  he  sung, 
Who  slept  on  Albert's  couch,  nor  heard  his  friendly 
tongue. 

xxv. 

"  Sleep,  wearied  one !  and  in  the  dreaming  land 
Shouldst  thou  to-morrow  with  thy  mother  meet, 
Oh !  tell  her  spirit  that  the  white  man's  hand 
Hath  plucked  the  thorns  of  sorrow  from  thy  feet ; 
While  I  in  Idnely  wilderness  shall  greet 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING.  Ill 

Thy  little  foot-prints — or  by  traces  know 
The  fountain,  where  at  noon  I  thought  it  sweet 
To  feed  thee  with  the  quarry  of  my  bow, 
And  poured  the  lotus-horn,  or  slew  the  mountain 
roe. 

XXVI. 

Adieu,  sweet  scion  of  the  rising  sun ! 
But  should  affliction's  storms  thy  blossom  mock, 
Then  come  again — my  own  adopted  one ! 
And  I  will  graft  thee  on  a  noble  stock : 
The  crocodile,  the  condor  of  the  rock, 
Shall  be  the  pastime  of  thy  sylvan  wars ; 
And  I  will  teach  thee  in  the  battle's  shock, 
To  pay  with  Huron  blood  thy  father's  scars  !" 
And  gratulate  his  soul  rejoicing  in  the  stars !" 

xxvn. 

So  finished  he  the  rhyme  (howe'er  uncouth) 
That  true  to  nature's  fervid  feelings  ran ; 
(And  song  is  but  the  eloquence  of  truth :) 
Then  forth  uprose  that  lone  way-faring  man ; 
But  dauntless  he,  nor  chart,  nor  journey's  plan 
In  woods  required,  whose  trained  eye  was  keen, 
As  eagle  of  the  wilderness,  to  scan 
His  path  by  mountain,  swamp,  or  deep  ravine, 
Or  ken  far  friendly  huts  on  good  savannas  green. 

XXVIII. 

Old  Albert  saw  him  from  the  valley's  side — 

His  pirogue  launched — his  pilgrimage  begun — 

Far,  like  the  red-bird's  wing  he  seemed  to  glide  j 

Then  dived,  and  vanished  in  the  woodlands  dun. 

Oft,  to  that  spot  by  tender  memory  won, 

Would  Albert  climb  the  promontory's  height, 

If  but  a  dim  sail  glimmered  in  the  sun ; 

But  never  more  to  bless  his  longing  sight, 

Was  Outalissi  hailed,  with  bark  and  plumage  bright- 


112  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 

PART   II. 
I. 

A  VALLEY  from  the  river  shore  withdrawn 
Was  Albert's  home,  two  quiet  woods  between, 
Whose  lofty  verdure  overlooked  his  lawn ; 
And  waters  to  their  resting-place  serene 
Came  freshening1,  and  reflecting  all  the  scene ; 
(A  mirror  in  the  depth  of  flowery  shelves;) 
So  sweet  a  spot  of  earth,  you  might  (I  ween) 
Have  guessed  some  congregation  of  the  elves, 
To  sport  by  summer  moons,  had  shaped  it  for  them« 
selves. 

ii. 

Yet  wanted  not  the  eye  far  scope  to  muse, 
Nor  vistas  opened  by  the  wandering  stream ; 
Both  were  at  evening  Alleghany  views, 
Through  ridges  burning  in  her  western  beam, 
Lake  after  lake  interminably  gleam : 
And  past  those  settlers'  haunts  the  eye  might  roam 
Where  earth's  unliving  silence  all  would  seem ; 
Save  where  on  rocks  the  beaver  built  his  dome, 
Or  buffalo  remote  lowed  far  from  human  home. 


in. 

But  silent  not  that  adverse  eastern  path, 
Which  saw  Aurora's  hills  th'  horizon  crown : 
There  was  the  river  heard,  in  bed  of  wrath, 
(A  precipice  of  foam  from  mountains  brown,) 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING.  113 

Like  tumults  heard  from  some  far  distant  town  j 
But  softening  in  approach  he  left  his  gloom, 
And  murmured  pleasantly,  and  laid  him  down 
To  kiss  those  easy  curving  banks  of  bloom, 
That  lent  the  windward  ah*  an  exquisite  perfume. 


IV. 

It  seemed  as  if  those  scenes  sweet  influence  had 
On  Gertrude's  soul,  and  kindness  like  their  own 
Inspired  those  eyes  affectionate  and  glad, 
That  seemed  to  love  whate'er  they  looked  upon  ; 
Whether  with  Hebe's  mirth  her  features  shone, 
Or  if  a  shade  more  pleasing  them  o'ercast, 
(As  if  for  heavenly  musing  meant  alone ;) 
Yet  so  becomingly  th'  expression  past, 
That  each  succeeding  look  was  lovelier  than  the 
last. 

v. 

Nor  guess  I,  was  that  Pennsylvanian  home, 

With  all  its  picturesque  and  balmy  grace, 

And  fields  that  were  a  luxury  to  roam, 

Lost  on  the  soul  that  looked  from  such  a  face  ! 

Enthusiast  of  the  woods !  when  years  apace 

Had  bound  thy  lovely  waist  with  woman's  zone, 

The  sunrise  path,  at  morn,  I  see  thee  trace 

To  hills  with  high  magnolia  overgrown, 

And  joy  to  breathe  the  groves,  romantic  and  alone. 

VI. 

The  sunrise  drew  her  thoughts  to  Europe  forth, 

That  thus  apostrophized  its  viewless  scene : 

"  Land  of  my  father's  love,  my  mother's  birth  ! 

The  home  of  kindred  I  have  never  seen  ! 

We  know  not  other — oceans  are  between  : 

Yet  say,  far  friendly  hearts !  from  whence  we  came, 

Of  us  does  oft  remembrance  intervene  ? 


114  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 

My  mother  sure — my  sire  a  thought  may  claim  ;— 
But  Gertrude  is  to  you  an  unregarded  name. 


VII. 

And  yet,  loved  England !  when  thy  name  I  trace 
In  many  a  pilgrim's  tale  and  poet's  song, 
How  can  I  choose  but  wish  for  one  embrace 
Of  them,  the  dear  unknown,  to  whom  belong 
My  mother's  looks, — perhaps  her  likeness  strong  f 
Oh,  parent !  with  what  reverential  awe, 
From  features  of  thy  own  related  throng, 
An  image  of  thy  face  my  soul  could  draw  ! 
And  see  thee  once  again  whom  I  too  shortly  saw  I 

vm. 

Yet  deem  not  Gertrude  sighed  for  foreign  joy ; 
To  soothe  a  father's  couch  her  only  care, 
And  keep  his  reverend  head  from  all  annoy : 
For  this,  methinkg,  her  homeward  steps  repair, 
Soon  as  the  morning  wreath  had  bound  her  hair  ; 
While  yet  the  wild  deer  trod  in  spangling  dew, 
While  boatmen  carolled  to  the  fresh-blown  air, 
And  woods  a  horizontal  shadow  threw, 
And  early  fox  appeared  in  momentary  view. 


IX. 

Apart  there  was  a  deep  untrodden  grot, 
Where  oft  the  reading  hours  sweet  Gertrude  wore ; 
Tradition  had  not  named  its  lonely  spot  j 
But  here  (methinks)  might  India's  sons  explore 
Their  fathers'  dust,  or  lift,  perchance  of  yore, 
Their  voice  to  the  great  Spirit : — rocks  sublime 
To  human  art  a  sportive  semblance  bore, 
And  yellow  lichens  colored  all  the  clime, 
Like  moonlight  battlements,  and  towers  decayed  by 
time. 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING.  115 


But  high  in  amphitheatre  above, 
Gay-tinted  woods  their  massy  foliage  threw ; 
Breathed    but    an    air    of    heaven,    and    all    the 

grove 

As  if  instinct  with  living  spirit  grew, 
Rolling  its  verdant  gulfs  of  every  hue ; 
And  now  suspended  was  the  pleasing  din, 
Now  from  a  murmur  faint  it  swelled  anew, 
Like  the  first  note  of  organ  heard  within 
Cathedral  aisles,— ere  yet  its  symphony  begin. 

XI. 

It  was  in  this  lone  valley  she  would  charm 

The  lingering  noon,  where  flowers   a   couch  had 

strown ; 

Her  cheek  reclining,  and  her  snowy  arm 
On  hillock  by  the  pine-tree  half  o'ergrown ; 
And  aye  that  volume  on  her  lap  is  thrown, 
Which  every  heart  of  human  mould  endears ; 
With   Shakespeare's   self  she   speaks  and   smiles 

alone, 

And  no  intruding  visitation  fears, 
To  shame  the  unconscious  laugh,  or  stop  her  sweet- 
est tears. 

xn. 

And  nought  within  the  grove  was  heard  or  seen 
But  stock-doves  plaining  through  its  gloom  pro* 

found, 

Or  winglet  of  the  fairy  humming-bird, 
Like  atoms  of  the  rainbow  fluttering  round  ; 
When,  lo !  there  entered  to  its  inmost  ground 
A  youth,  the  stranger  of  a  distant  land ; 
He  was,  to  weet,  for  eastern  mountains  bound ; 
But  late  th'  equator  suns  his  cheek  had  tanned, 
And  California's  gales  his  roving  bosom  fanned. 


11G  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 

xni. 

A  steed,  whose  rein  hung  loosely  o'er  his  arm, 
He  led  dismounted  j  ere  his  leisure  pace, 
.   Amid  the  brown  leaves,  could  her  ear  alarm, 
Close  he  had  come,  and  worshipped  for  a  space 
Those  downcast  features : — she  her  lovely  face 
Uplift  on  one,  whose  lineaments  and  frame 
Wore  youth  and  manhood's  intermingled  grace : 
Iberian  seemed  his  boot — his  robe  the  same, 
And  well  the  Spanish  plume  his  lofty  looks  became. 

XIV. 

For  Albert's  home  he  sought — her  finger  fair 
Has  pointed  where  the  father's  mansion  stood. 
Returning  from  the  copse  he  soon  was  there ; 
And  soon  has  Gertrude  hied  from  dark  green  wood. 
Nor  joyless,  by  the  converse,  understood 
Between  the  man  of  age  and  pilgrim  young, 
That  gay  congeniality  of  mood, 
And  early  liking  from  acquaintance  sprung ; 
Full  fluently  conversed   their   guest  in  England's 
tongue. 

xv. 

And  well  could  he  his  pilgrimage  of  taste 

Unfold, — and  much  they  loved  his  fervid  strain, 

While  he  each  fair  variety  retraced 

Of  climes,  and  manners,  o'er  the  eastern  main. 

Now  happy  Switzer's  hills — romantic  Spain, — 

(Jay  lilied  fields  of  France, — or,  more  refined, 

The  soft  Ausonia's  monumental  reign; 

Nor  less  each  rural  image  he  designed 

Than  ail  the  city's  pomp  and  home  of  human  kind. 

XVI. 

Anon  some  wilder  portraiture  lie  draws ; 

Of  Nature's  savage  glories  he  would  speak, — 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING.  11? 

The  loneliness  of  earth  that  overawes, — 
"Where,  resting  by  some  tomb/>f  old  Cacique, 
The  lama-driver  on  Peruvia's  peak 
Nor  living  voice  nor  motion  marks  around ; 
But  storks  that  to  the  boundless  forest  shriek, 
Or  wild-cane  arch  high  flung  o'er  gulf  profound, 
That  fluctuates  when  the  storms   of  El  Dorado 
sound. 

XVII. 

Pleased  with  his  guest,  the  good  man  still  would  ply 
Each  earnest  question,  and  his  converse  court ; 
But  Gertrude,  as  she  eyed  him,  knew  not  why 
A  strange  and  troubling  wonder  stopt  her  short. 
"  In  England  thou  hast  been, — and,  by  report, 
An   orphan's  name  (quoth    Albert)    may'st    IIUVL- 

known. 

Sad  tale ! — when  latest  fell  our  frontier  fort, — 
One  innocent — one  soldier's  child — alone 
Was  spared,  and  brought  to  me,  who  loved  him  as 

my  own. 

XVIII. 

Young  Henry  Waldegrave !  three  delightful  years 

These  very  walls  his  infant  sports  did  see, 

But  most  I  loved  him  when  his  parting  tears 

Alternately  bedewed  my  child  and  me : 

His  sorest  parting,  Gertrude,  was  from  thee ; 

Nor  half  its  grief  his  little  heart  could  hold  ; 

By  kindred  he  was  sent  for  o'er  the  sea, 

They  tore  him  from  us  when  but  twelve  years  old, 

And  scarcely  for  his  loss  have  I  been  yet  consoled !" 

xrx. 

His  face  the  wanderer  hid — but  could  not  hide 

A  tear,  a  smile,  upon  his  cheek  that  dwell ; 

"  And  speak !  mysterious  stranger !  (Gertrude  cried) 

It  is ! — it  is ! — I  knew — I  knew  him  well ! 

'T  is  Waldegrave's  self,  of  Waldegrave  come  to  tell  I" 


118  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 

A  burst  of  joy  the  father's  lips  declare ! 
But  Gertrude  speechless  on  his  bosom  fell ; 
At  once  his  open  arms  embraced  the  pair, 
Was  never  group  more  blest  in  this  wide  world  of 
care. 

xx. 

"  And  will  ye  pardon  then  (replied  the  youth) 
Your  Waldegrave's  feigned  name,  and  false  attire  ? 
I  durst  not  in  the  neighborhood,  in  truth. 
The  very  fortunes  of  your  house  inquire ; 
Lest  one  that  knew  me  might  some  tidings  dire 
Impart,  and  I  my  weakness  all  betray, 
For  had  I  lost  my  Gertrude  and  my  sire, 
I  meant  but  o'er  your  tombs  to  weep  a  day, 
Unknown  I  meant  to  weep,  unknown  to  pass  away. 

XXI. 

But  here  ye  live,  ye  bloom, — in  each  dear  face, 
The  changing  hand  of  time  I  may  not  blame ; 
For  there,  it  hath  but  shed  more  reverend  grace, 
And  here,  of  beauty  perfected  the  frame : 
And  well  I  know  your  hearts  are  still  the  same — 
They  could  not  change — ye  look  the  very  way, 
As  when  an  orphan  first  to  you  I  came. 
And  have  you  heard  of  my  poor  guide  I  pray '/ 
Nay,  wherefore  weep  ye,  friends,  on  such  a  joyous 
day  ?" 

XXII. 

"  And  art  thou  here  ?  or  is  it  but  a  dream  f 

And  wilt  thou,  Waldegrave,  wilt   thou,   leave  us 

more  ?" 

"No,  never!  thou  that  yet  dost  lovelier  seem 
Than  aught  on  earth — than  even  thyself  of  yore — 
I  will  not  part  thee  from  thy  father's  shore ; 
But  we  shall  cherish  him  with  mutual  arms, 
And  hand  in  hand  ajain  the  path  explore 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING.  119 

"Which  every  ray  of  young  remembrance  warms, 
While  thou  shalt  be  my  own,  with  all  thy  truth  and 
charms !" 

xxm. 

At  morn,  as  if  beneath  a  galaxy 
Of  over-arching  groves  in  blossoms  white, 
Where  all  was  odorous  scent  and  harmony, 
And  gladness  to  the  heart,  nerve,  ear,  and  sight : 
There,  if,  O  gentle  Love !  I  read  aright 
The  utterance  that  sealed  thy  sacred  bond, 
'T  was  listening  to  these  accents  of  delight, 
She  hid  upon  his  breast  those  eyes,  beyond 
Expression's   power    to    paint,    all    langui shingly 
fond — 

XXIV. 

"  Flower  of  my  life,  so  lovely  and  so  lone  ! 
Whom  I  would  rather  in  this  desert  meet, 
Scorning,  and  scorned  by  fortune's  power,  than  own 
Her  pomp  and  splendors  lavished  at  my  feet ! 
Turn  not  from  me  thy  breath  more  exquisite 
Than    odors    cast    on    heaven's    own     shrine — to 

please — 

Give  me  thy  love,  than  luxury  more  sweet, 
And  more  than  all  the  wealth  that  loads  the  breeze, 
When    Coromandel's    ships     return    from    Indian 

seas." 

XXV. 

Then  would  that  home  admit  them — happier  far 
Than  grandeur's  most  magnificent  saloon, 
While,  here  and  there,  a  solitary  star 
Flushed  in  the  darkening  firmament  of  June ; 
And  silence  brought  the  soul-felt  hour,  full  soon, 
Ineffable,  which  I  may  not  portray; 
For  never  did  the  hymenean  moon 
A  paradise  of  hearts  more  sacred  sway, 
In  all  that  slept  beneath  her  soft  voluptuous  ray. 


120  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING, 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 


PART   III. 


O  LOVE  !  in  such  a  wilderness  as  this, 
Where  transport  and  security  entwine, 
Here  is  the  empire  of  thy  perfect  bliss, 
And  here  thou  art  a  god  indeed  divine. 
Here  shall  no  forms  abridge,  no  hours  confine, 
The  views,  the  walks,  that  boundless  joy  inspire .' 
Roll  on,  ye  days  of  raptured  influence,  shine  ! 
Nor,  blind  with  ecstasy's  celestial  fire, 
Shall  love  behold  the  spark  of  earth-born  time  ex- 
pire. 

II. 

Three  little  moons,  how  short !  amidst  the  grove 
And  pastoral  savannas  they  consume  ! 
While  she,  beside  her  buskined  youth  to  rove. 
Delights,  in  fancifully  wild  costume, 
Her  lovely  brow  to  shade  with  Indian  plume : 
And  forth  in  hunter-seeming  vest  they  fare  ; 
But  not  to  chase  the  deer  in  forest  gloom, 
'T  is  but  the  breath  of  heaven — the  blessed  air — 
And  interchange   of  hearts    unknown,   unseen   to 
share. 

in. 

• 

What  thougli  the  sportive  dog  oft  round  them  note 
Or  fawn,  or  wild  bird  bursting  on  the  wing ; 
Yet  who,  in  Love's  own  presence,  would  devote 
To  death  those  gentle  throats  that  wake  the 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING.  121 

Or  writhing  from  the  brook  its  victim  bring  ? 
No ! — nor  let  fear  one  little  warbler  rouse  ; 
But,  fed  by  Gertrude's  hand,  still  let  them  sing-, 
Acquaintance  of  her  path,  amidst  the  boughs, 
That  shade  even  now  her  love,  and  witnessed  first 
her  vows. 

IV. 

Now  labyrinths,  which  but  themselves  can  pierce, 
Methinks,  conduct  them  to  some  pleasant  ground, 
Where  welcome  hills  shut  out  the  universe, 
And  pines  their  lawny  walk  encompass  round  ; 
There,  if  a  pause  delicious  converse  found, 
T  was  but  when  o'er  each  heart  the  idea  stole, 
(Perchance  a  while  in  joy's  oblivion  drowned) 
That  come  what  inay,  while  life's  glad  pulses  roll, 
Indissolubly  thus  should  soul  be  knit  to  soul. 

v. 

And  in  the  visions  of  romantic  youth, 
What  years  of  endless  bliss  are  yet  to  flow ! 
But  mortal  pleasure,  what  art  thou  in  truth  ? 
The  torrent's  smoothness,  ere  it  dash  below  ! 
And  must  I  change  my  song  ?  and  must  I  show, 
Sweet  Wyoming !  the  day  when  thou  wert  doomed, 
Guiltless,  to  mourn  thy  loveliest  bowers  laid  low  ! 
When  where  of  yesterday  a  garden  bloomed, 
Death  overspread  his  pall,  and  blackening   ashes 
gloomed ! 

VI. 

Sad  was  the  year,  by  proud  oppression  driven, 

When  Transatlantic  Liberty  arose, 

Not  in  the  sunshine  and  the  smile  of  heaven, 

But  wrapt  in  whirlwinds,  and  begirt  with  woes, 

Amidst  the  strife  of  fratricidal  foes ; 

Her  birth-star  was  the  light  of  burning  plains  :* 

*  Alluding  to  the  miseries  that  attended  the  American  civil 
war. 
F 


122  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 

Her  baptism  is  the  weight  of  blood  that  flows 
From  kindred  hearts — the  blood  of  British  veins — • 
And  famine  tracks  her  steps,  and  pestilential  pains. 

vn. 

Yet,  ere  the  storm  of  death  had  raged  remote, 
Or  siege  unseen  in  heaven  reflects  its  beams, 
Who  now  each  dreadful  circumstance  shall  note, 
That  fills   pale   Gertrude's   thoughts,  and  nightly 

dreams ! 

Dismal  to  her  the  forge  of  battle  gleams 
Portentous  light !  and  music's  voice  is  dumb ; 
Save  where  the  fife  its  shrill  reveille  screams, 
Or  midnight  streets  reecho  to  the  drum, 
That  speaks  of  maddening  strife,  and  bloodstained 

fields  to  come. 

vni. 

'  It  was  in  truth  a  momentary  pang ; 
Yet  how  comprising  myriad  shapes  of  woe ! 
First  when  in  Gertrude's  ear  the  summons  rang, 
A  husband  to  the  battle  doomed  to  go  ! 
"Nay  meet  not  thou  (she  cried)  thy  kindred  foe  ! 
But  peaceful  let  us  seek  fair  England's  strand  !" 
"  Ah,  Gertrude,  thy  beloved  heart,  I  know. 
Would  feel  like  mine  the  stigmatizing  brand  ! 
Could  I  forsake  the  cause  of  Freedom's  holy  band ! 

IX. 

But    shame — but    flight  —  a    recreant's    name    to 

prove, 

To  hide  in  exile  ignominious  fears ; 
Say,  even  if  this  I  brooked,  the  public  love 
Thy  father's  bosom  to  his  home  endears : 
And  how  could  I  his  few  remaining  years, 
My  Gertrude,  sever  from  so  dear  a  child  ?" 
So,  day  by  day,  her  boding  heart  he  cheers : 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING.  123 

At  last  that  heart  to  hope  is  half  beguiled, 
And,  pale  through  tears  suppressed,  the  mournful 
beauty  smiled. 

x. 

Night  came, — and  in  their  lighted  bower,  full  late, 
The  joy  of  converse  had  endured — when,  hark ! 
Abrupt  and  loud,  a  summons  shook  their  gate ; 
And  needless  of  the  dog's  obstreperous  bark, 
A  form  had  rushed  amidst  them  from  the  dark, 
And  spread  his  arms, — and  fell  upon  the  floor: 
Of  aged  strength  his  limbs  retained  the  mark ; 
But  desolate  he  looked,  and  famished  poor, 
As   ever  shipwrecked  wretch  lone  left  on  desert 
shore. 

XI. 

Uprisen,  each  wondering  brow  is  knit  and  arched : 
A  spirit  from  the  dead  they  deem  him  first : 
To  speak  he  tries ;  but  quivering,  pale,  and  parched , 
From  lips,  as  by  some  powerless  dream  accursed, 
Emotions  unintelligible  burst ; 
And  long  his  filmed  eye  is  red  and  dim : 
At  length  the  pity-proffered  cup  his  thirst 
Had  half  assauged,  and  nerved  his  shuddering  lirnK 
When  Albert's  hand  he  grasped ; — but  Albert  knew 
not  him — 

XII. 

"  And  hast  thou  then  forgot "  (he  cried  forlorn, 
And  eyed  the  group  with  half  indignant  air), 
"  O  !  hast  thou,  Christian  chief,  forgot  the  morn 
When  I  with  thee  the  cup  of  peace  did  share? 
Then  stately  was  this  head,  and  dark  this  hair. 
That  now  is  white  as  Appalachia's  snow ; 
But,  if  the  weight  of  fifteen  years'  despair, 
And  age  hath  bowed  me,  and  the  torturing  foe, 
Bring  me    my    boy — and    he    will  his   deliverer 
know !" 


1>4  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMDTG. 

xni. 

It  was  not  long,  with  eyes  and  heart  of  flame, 

Ere  Henry  to  his  loved  Oneyda  flew ; 

"  Bless  thee,  my  guide !" — but  backward,  as  he  came.,, 

The  chief  his  old  bewildered  head  withdrew, 

And  grasped  his  arm,  and  looked  and  looked  him 

through. 

T  was  strange— nor  could  the  group  a  smile  control — 
The  long,  the  doubtful  scrutiny  to  view: 
At  last  delight  o'er  all  his  features  stole, 
"  It  is— my  own,"  he  cried,  and  clasped  him  tu  his 

soul. 

XIV. 

"  Yes  !  thou  recall'st  my  pride  of  years,  for  then 
The  bowstring  of  my  spirit  was  not  slack, 
When,  spite  of  woods,  and  floods,  and  ambushed 
^  men, 

I  bore  thee  like  the  quiver  on  my  back, 
Fleet  as  the  whirlwind  hurries  on  the  rack ; 
Nor  foeman  then,  nor  cougar's  crouch  I  feared,* 
For  I  was  strong  as  mountain  cataract : 
And  dost  thou  not  remember  how  we  cheered. 
Upon   the   last   hill-top,   when    white    men's   huts 
appeared  ? 


Then  welcome  be  my  death-song,  and  my  death ! 
Since  I  have  seen  thee,  and  again  embraced,'' 
And  longer  had  he  spent  his  toil-worn  breath; 
But  with  affectionate  and  eager  haste, 
Was  every  arm  outstretched  around  their  giu-st, 
To  welcome  and  .to  bless  his  aged  head. 
Soon  was  the  hospitable  banquet  placed ; 
And  Gertrude's  lovely  hands  a  balsam  shed 
On  wounds  with  fevered  joy  that  more  profusely 
bled. 

*  Cougar,  the  American  tiger. 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING.  !•>:» 

XVI. 

"  But  this  is  not  a  time," — he  started  up, 

And  smote  his  breast  with  woe-denouncing  hand — 

"  This  is  no  time  to  fill  the  joyous  cup,     [Brandt, — 

The    Mammoth    conies, — the    foe, — the     Monster 

With  all  his  howling  desolating1  band ; — 

These  eyes  have  seen  their  blade  and  burnin»-  pine 

Awake  at  once,  and  silence  half  your  land. 

Red  is  the  cup  they  drink;  but  not  with  wine  : 

Awake,  and  watch  to-night,  or  see  no  morning  shine  ! 

XVII. 

Scorning  to  wield  the  hatchet  for  his  bribe, 

'Gainst  Brandt  himself  I  went  to  battle  forth : 

Accursed  Brandt !  he  left  of  all  my  tribe 

Nor  man,  nor  child,  nor  thing  of  living  birth : 

No !  not  the  dog  that  watched  my  household  hearth, 

Escaped  that  night  of  blood,  upon  our  plains  ! 

All  perished  ! — I  alone  am  left  on  earth ! 

To  whom  nor  relative  nor  blood  remains, 

No  ! — not  a  kindred  drop  that  runs  in  human  veins  1 

XVIII. 

But  go  ! — and  rouse  your  warriors,  for,  if  right 
These  old  bewildered  eyes  could  guess,  by  signs 
Of  striped  and  starred  banners,  on  you  height 
Of  eastern  cedars,  o'er  the  creek  of  pines — 
Some  fort  embattled  by  your  country  shines : 
Deep  roars  th'  innavigable  gulf  below 
Its  squared  rock,  and  palisaded  lines. 
Go !  seek  the  light  its  warlike  beacons  show ; 
"Whilst  I  in  ambush  wait,  for  vengeance,  and  the  foe  !'r 

XIX. 

Scarce  had  he  uttered — when  Heaven's  verge  ex- 
treme 
Reverberates  the  bomb's  descending  star, — 


126  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING 

And  sounds  that  mingled  laugh,  —  and  shout,  —  and 

scream,  — 

To  freeze  the  blood,  in  one  discordant  jar, 
Rung  to  the  pealing  thunderbolts  of  war. 
Whoop  after  whoop  with  rack  the  ear  assailed  ; 
As  if  unearthly  fiends  had  burst  thur  bar  ; 
While  rapidly  the  marksman's  shot  prevailed  : 
And   aye,    as    if   for    death,  some  lonely   trumpet 

wailed. 

xx. 

Then  looked  they  to  the  hills,  where  fire  o'erhung 
The  bandit  groups,  in  one  Vesuvian  glare  ; 
Or  swept,  far  seen,  the  tower,  whose  clock  unrung 
Told  legible  that  midnight  of  despair.  , 

She  faints,  —  she  falters  not,  —  th'  heroic  fair,  — 
As  he  the  sword  and  plume  in  haste  arrayed. 
One  short  embrace  —  he  clasped  his  dearest  care  — 
But    hark!    what    nearer     war-drum     shakes    ihc 

glade  ? 
Joy,  joy  !  Columbia's  frien4s  are  trampling  through 

the  shade  ! 


Then  came  of  every  race  the  mingled  swarm, 

Far  rung  the  groves  and  gleamed  the   midnight 

grass, 

With  flambeau,  javelin,  and  naked  arm  ; 
As  warriors  wheeled  their  culverins  of  brass, 
Sprung  from  the  woods,  a  bold  athletic  mass, 
Whom  virtue  fires,  and  liberty  combines  : 
And  first  the  wild  Moravian  yagers  pass, 
His  plumed  host  the  dark  Iberian  joins  — 
And  Scotia's  sword  beneath  the  Highland  thistle 

shines. 

XXII. 

And  in  the  buskined  hunters  cf  the  deer. 

To  Albert's  home,  with  shout  and  cymbal  throng  :  — 


GEKTEUDE  OF  WYOMING.  1'27 

Roused   by  their   warlike    pomp,  and  mirth,  and 

cheer, 

Old  Outalissi  woke  his  battle-song, 
And,  beating  with  his  war-club  cadence  strong, 
Tells  how  his  deep-stung  indignation  smarts, 
Of  them  that  wrapt  his  house  in  flames,  ere  long, 
To  whet  a  dagger  on  their  stony  hearts, 
And  smile  avenged  ere  yet  his  eagle  spirit  parts.— 

XXIII. 

Calm,  opposite  the  Christian  father  rose, 
Pale  on  his  venerable  brow  its  rays 
Of  martyr  light  the  conflagration  throws ; 
One  hand  upon  his  lovely  child  he  lays, 
And  one  the  uncovered  crowd  to  silence  sways ; 
While,  though  the  battle  flash  is  faster  driven, — 
Unawed,  with  eye  unstartled  by  the  blaze, 
He  for  his  bleeding  country  prays  to  Heaven, — 
Prays  that  the  men  of  blood    themselves  may  bo 
forgiven. 

XXIV, 

Short  time  is  now  for  gratulating  speech : 

And  yet,  beloved  Gertrude,  ere  began 

Thy  country's  flight,  yon  distant  towers  to  reach, 

Looked  not  on  thee  the  rudest  partisan 

With  brow  relaxed  to  love  ?     And  murmurs  ran, 

As  round  and  round  their  willing  ranks  they  drew, 

From  beauty's  sight  to  shield  the  hostile  van. 

Grateful,  on  them  a  placid  look  she  threw, 

Nor  wept,  but  as  she  bade  her  mother's  grave  adieu  ! 

XXV. 

Past  was  the  flight,  and  welcome  seemed  the  tower 
That  like  a  giant  standard-bearer  frowned 
Defiance  oft  the  roving  Indian  power, 
Beneath,  each  bold  and  promontory  mound 


S*  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 

With  embrasure  embossed,  and  armor  crowned, 
And  arrowy  frize,  and  wedged  ravelin, 
Wove  like  a  diadem  its  tracery  round 
The  lofty  summit  of  that  mountain  green ; 
Here   stood  secure  the  group,   and  eyed  a  distant 
scene. 

XXVI. 

A  scene  of  death !  where  fires  beneath  the  sun, 
And  blended  arms,  and  white  pavilions  glow ; 
And-  for  the  business  of  destruction  done, 
Its  requiem  the  war-horn  seemed  to  blow : 
There,  sad  spectatress  of  her  country's  woe ! 
The  lovely  Gertrude,  safe  from  present  harm, 
Had  laid  her  cheek,  and  clasped  her  hands  of  snow 
On  Waldegrave's  shoulder,  half  within  his  arm 
Enclosed,  that  felt  her  heart,  and  hushed  its  wild 
alarm! 

XXVII. 

But  short  that  contemplation — sad  and  short 
The  pause  to  bid  each  much-loved  scene  adieu ! 
Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  the  fort, 
Where  friendly  swords  were  drawn,  and  banners 

flew ; 

Ah !  who  could  deem  that  foot  of  Indian  crew 
Was    near? — yet    there,    with    lust    of   murderous 

deeds, 

Gleamed  like  a  basilisk,  from  woods  in  view. 
The  ambushed  foeman's  eye — his  volley  speeds. 
And   Albert — Albert    falls!   the   dear   old  father 

bleeds ! 

XXVIII. 

And  tranced  in  giddy  horror  Gertrude  swooned ; 
Yet,  while  she  clasps  him  lifeless  to  her  zone, 
Say,  burst  they,  borrowed  from  her  fttther's  wound, 
These  drops? — Oh,  God  !  the  life-blood  is  her  own! 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING.  UD 

And  faltering,  on  her  Waldegrave's  bosom  thrown — 
"  Weep  not,   O   Love ! " — she   cries,    "  to  see  me 

bleed — 

Thee,  Gertrude's  sad  survivor,  thee  alone 
Heaven's  peace  commiserate  5  for  scarce  I  heed 
These  wounds ; — yet  thee  to  leave  is  death,  is  death 

indeed ! 

xxrs. 

Clasp  me  a  little  longer  on  the  brink 

Of  fate  !  while  I  can  feel  thy  dear  caress ; 

And  when  this  heart  hath  ceased  to   beat — oh ! 

think, 

And  let  it  mitigate  thy  woe's  excess, 
That  thou  hast  been  to  me  all  tenderness, 
And  friend  to  more  than  human  friendship  just. 
Oh !  by  that  retrospect  of  happiness, 
And  by  the  hopes  of  an  immortal  trust, 
God  shall  assuage  thy  pangs — when  I  am  laid  in 

dust! 

XXX. 

Go,  Henry,  go  not  back,  when  I  depart, 

The  scene  thy  bursting  tears  too  deep  will  move, 

Where  my  dear  father  took  thee  to  his  heart, 

And  Gertrude  thought  it  ecstasy  to  rove 

With  thee,  as  with  an  angel,  through  the  grove 

Of  peace,  imagining  her  lot  was  cast 

In  heaven ;  for  ours  was  not  like  earthly  love. 

And  must  this  parting  be  our  very  last  ? 

No !    I   shall  love  thee  still,  when  death  itself  is 


XXXI. 

Half  could  I  bear,  methinks,  to  leave  this  earth, 
And  thee,  more  loved  than  aught  beneath  the  sun, 
If  I  had  lived  to  smile  but  on  the  birth 
Of  one  dear  pledge ; — but  shall  there  then  be  none. 


130  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 

In  future  times — no  gentle  little  one, 

To  clasp  thy  neck,  and  look,  resembling  me  ? 

Yet  seems  it,  even  while  life's  last  pulses  run, 

A  sweetness  in  the  cup  of  death  to  be, 

JLord  of  my  bosom's  love !  to  die  beholding  thee ! 

XXXII. 

Hushed  were  his  Gertrude's  lips !  but   still  their 

bland 

And  beautiful  expression  seemed  to  melt 
With  love  that  could  not  die !  and  still  his  hand 
She  presses  to  the  heart  no  more  that  felt. 
Ah,  heart !  where  one-  each  fond  affection  dwelt, 
And  features  yet  that  spoke  a  soul  more  fair. 
Mute,  gazing,  agonL'ng,  <*s  he  knelt, — 
Of  them  that  stood  encircling  hi   despair, 
He  heard   some   fri  ndly  words; — but   knew  not 

what  they  were. 

XXXIII. 

Tor  now,  to  mourn  their  judge  and  child,  arrives 
A  faithful  band.     With  solemn  rites  between 
'T  was  sung,  how  they  were  lovely  in  their  lives, 
And  in  their  deaths  had  not  divided  been. 
Touched  by  the  music,  and  the  melting  scene, 
Was  scarce  one  tearless  eye  amidst  the  crowd : — 
Stern  warriors,  resting  on  ^heir  swords,  were  seen 
To   veil  their  eyes,   as   passed   each    much-loved 

shroud — 
While  woman's  softer  soul  in  woe  dissolved  aloud. 

XXXIV. 

Then  mournfully  the  parting  bugle  bid 

Its  farewell,  o'er  the  grave  of  worth  and  truth; 

Prone  to  the  dust,  afflicted  Waldegrave  hid 

His  face  on  earth; — him  watched,  in  gloomy  ruth, 


GERTBUDE  OF  WYOMING.  131 

His  woodland  guide :  but  words  had  none  to  soothe 
The  grief  that  knew  not  consolation's  name : 
Casting  his  Indian  mantle  o'er  the  youth, 
He  watched,  beneath  its  folds,  each  burst  that  came 
Convulsive,  ague-like,  across  his  shuddering* frame' 

xxxv. 

"  And  I  could  weep ;" — th'  Oneyda  chief 

His  descant  wildly  thus  begun : 

<l  But  that  I  may  not  stain  with  grief 

The  death  song  of  my  father's  son, 

Or  bow  this  head  in  woe ! 

For  by  my  wrongs,  and  by  my  wrath ! 

To-morrow  Areouski's  breath, 

(That  fires  yon  heaven  with  storms  of  death,) 

Shall  light  us  to  the  foe : 

And  we  shall  share,  my  Christian  boy ! 

The  foeman's  blood,  the  avenger's  joy ! 

XXXVI. 

But  thee,  my  flower,  whose  breath  was  given, 

By  milder  genii  o'er  the  deep, 

The  spirits  of  the  white  man's  heaven 

Forbid  not  thee  to  weep : — 

Nor  will  the  Christian  host, 

Nor  will  thy  father's  spirit  grieve, 

To  see  thee,  on  the  battle's  eve, 

Lamenting,  take  a  mournful  leave 

Of  her  who  loved  thee  most : 

She  was  the  rainbow  to  thy  sight ! 

Thy  sun — thy  heaven — of  lost  delight. 

xxx  vn. 

To-morrow  let  us  do  or  die  ! 
But  when  the  bolt  of  death  is  hurled, 
Ah !  whither  then  with  thee  to  fly, 
Shall  Outalisbi  roam  the  world  ? 


132  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 

Seek  we  thy  once-loved  home  ? 

The  hand  is  gone  that  cropt  its  flowers : 

Unheard  their  clock  repeats  its  hours ! 

Cold  is  the  hearth  within  their  bowers ! 

And  should  we  thither  roam, 

Its  echoes,  and  its  empty  tread, 

Would  sound  like  voices  from  the  dead ! 

XXXVIII. 

Or  shall  we  cross  3-011  mountains  blue, 

Whose  streams  my  kindred  nation  quaffed, 

And  by  my  side,  in  battle  true, 

A  thousand  warriors  drew  the  shaft  ? 

Ah !  there,  in  desolation  cold, 

The  desert  serpent  dwells  alone, 

Where  grass  o'ergrows  each  mouldering  boney 

And  stones  themselves  to  ruin  grown, 

Like  me,  are  death-like  old. 

Then  seek  we  not  their  camp, — for  there— 

The  silence  dwells  of  my  despair ! 

XXXIX. 

But  hark,  the  trump  ! — to-morrow  thou 
In  glory's  fires  shall  dry  thy  tears; 
Ev'n  from  tjie  land  of  shadows  now 
My  father's  awful  ghost  appears, 
Amidst  the  clouds  that  round  us  roll; 
He  bids  my  soul  for  battle  thirst — 
He  bids  me  dry  the  last — the  first — 
The  only  tears  that  ever  burst 
From  Outalissi's  soul; 
Because  I  may  not  stain  with  grief 
The  death-song  of  an  Indian  chief  1" 


LINES.  133 


LINES 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  REQUEST  OF  THE  HIGHLAND  S(M  T- 
ETYOFLOXDOX/WHEXMETTOCOMMEMORATr.THK 
21st  OF  MARCH,  THE  DAY  OF  VICTORY  IX  ECYI'T. 

PLEDGE  to  the  much-loved  land  that  gave  us  birth ! 

Invincible  romantic  Scotia's  shore  ! 
Pledge  to  the  memory  of  her  parted  worth  ! 

And  first,  amidst  the  brave,  remember  Moore 

And  be  it  deemed  not  wrong  that  name  to  give. 

In  festive  hours,  which  prompts  the  patriot's  sigh  : 
Who  would  not  envy  such  as  Moore  to  live? 

And  died  he  not  as  heroes  wish  to  die  ? 

Yes,  though  too  soon  attaining  glory's  goal, 
To  us  his  bright  career  too  short  was  given  j 

Yet  in  a  mighty  cause  his  phoenix  soul 
Rose  on  the  flames  of  victory  to  Heaven  ! 

How  oft  (if  beats  in  subjugated  Spain 

One  patriot  heart)  in  secret  shall  it  mourn 

For  him ! — How  oft  on  far  Corunna's  plain 
Shall  British  exiles  weep  upon  his  urn  ! 

Peace  to  the  mighty  dead  ! — our  bosom  thanks 
In  sprightlier  strains  the  living  may  inspire ! 

Joy  to  the  chiefs  that  lead  old  Scotia's  ranks, 
Of  Roman  garb  and  more  than  Roman  fire ! 

Triumphant  be  the  thistle  still  unfurled, 

Dear  symbol  wild !  on  Freedom's  hills  it  grows, 

Where  Fingal  stemmed  the  tyrants  of  the  world, 
And  Roman  eagles  found  unconquered  foes. 


13  i  STANZAS. 

Joy  to  the  band*  this  day  on  Egypt's  coast, 
Whose  valor  tamed  proud  France's  tricolor, 

And  wrenched  the  banner  from  her  bravest  host, 
Baptized  Invincible  in  Austria's  gore ! 

Joy  for  the  day  on  red  Vimeira's  strand, 
When,  bayonet  to  bayonet  opposed, 

First  of  Britannia's  host  her  Highland  band 

Gave  but  the  death-shot  once,  and  foremost  closed, 

Is  there  a  son  of  generous  England  here 
Or  fervid  Erin '! — he  with  us  shall  join, 

To  pray  that  in  eternal  union  dear, 

The  rose,  the  shamrock,  and  the  thistle  twine  ! 

Types  of  a  race  who  shall  th'  invader  scorn, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  round  their  shore  ; 

Types  of  a  race  who  shall  to  time  unb'orn 
Their  country  leave  tmconquered  as  of  yore  ! 

1S09. 


TO  THE  MEMOKY  OF  THE  SPANISH  PATRIOTS  LATEST 
KILLED  IN  RESISTING  THE  REGENCY  AND  THE 
DUKE  OF  ANGOULEME. 

BRAVE  men  who  at  the  Trocadero  fell — 
Beside  your  cannons  conquered  not,  though  slain, 
There  is  a  victory  in  dying  well 
For  Freedom, — and  ye  have  not  died  in  vain ; 

*  The  42d  Regiment. 


STANZAS.  135 

For,  come  what  may,  there  shall  be  hearts  in  Spain 
To  honor,  ay,  embrace  your  martyred  lot, 
Cursing  the  Bigot's  and  the  Bourbon's  chain, 
And  looking  on  your  graves,  though  trophied  not, 
As  holier  hallowed  ground  than  priests  could  make 
the  spot ! 

What  though  your  cause  be  baffled — freemen  cast 
In  dungeons—dragged  to  death,  or  forced  to  flee; 
Hope  is  not  withered  in  affliction's  blast — 
The  patriot's  blood's  the  seed  of  Freedom's  tree ; 
And  short  your  orgies  of  revenge  shall  be, 
Cowled  demons  of  the  Inquisitorial  cell ! 
Earth  shudders  at  your  victory, — for  ye 
Are  worse  than  common  fiends  from  Heaven  that 

fell, 
The  baser,  ranker  sprung,  Autochtiiones  of  Hell ! 

Go  to  your  bloody  rites  again — bring  back 
The  hall  of  horrors  and  the  assessor's  pen, 
Recording  answers  shrieked  upon  the  rack  j 
Smile  o'er  the  gaspings  of  spine-broken  men ; — 
Preach,  perpetrate  damnation  in  your  den ; — 
Then  let  your  altars,  ye  blasphemers !  peal 
With  thanks  to  Heaven,  that  let  you  loose  again, 
To  practise  deeds  with  torturing  fire  and  steel 
No  eye«rnay  search — no  tongue  may  challenge  or 
reveal ! 

Yet  laugh  not  in  your  carnival  of  crime 
Too  proudly,  ye  oppressors ! — Spain  was  free, 
Her  soil  has  felt  the  foot-prints,  and  her  clirne 
Been  winnowed  by  the  wings  of  Liberty ; 
And  these  even  parting  scatter  as  they  flee 
Thoughts — influences,  to  live  in  hearts  unborn, 
Opinions  that  shall  wrench  the  prison-key 
From  Persecution — show  her  mask  off-torn, 
And  tramp  her  bloated  head  beneath   the  foot  of 
Scora. 


136  SONG  OF  THE  GREEKS. 

Glory  to  them  that  die  in  this  great  cause ; 
Kings,  Bigots,  can  inflict  no  brand  of  shame, 
Or  shape  of  death,  to  shroud  them  from  applause  :— 
No  ! — manglers  cf  the  martyr's  earthly  frame  ! 
Your  hangmen  fingers  cannot  touch  his  fame  ! 
Still  in  your  prostrate  land  there  shall  be  some 
1'roud  hearts,  the  shrines  of  Freedom's  vestal  flame. 
Long  trains  of  ill  may  pass  unheeded,  dumb. 
But  vengeance  is  behind,  and  justice  is  to  come. 

1823. 


SONG  OF  THE  GREEKS. 

AGAIN"  to  the  battle,  Achaians ! 

Our  hearts  bid  the  tyrants  defiance ! 

Our  land,  the.  first  garden  of  Liberty's  tree — 

It  has  been,  and  shall  yet  be,  the  land  of  the  free. 

For  the  cross  of  our  faith  is  replanted, 

The  pale  dying  crescent  is  daunted, 

And  we  march  that  the  foot-prints   of  Mahomet's 

slaves 
May  be  washed  out  in  blood  from  our  forefathers' 

graves. 

Their  spirits  are  hovering  o'er  us, 
And  the  sword  shall  to  glory  restore  us. 

Ah !  what  though  no  succor  advances, 

Nor  Christendom's  chivalrous  lances 

Are  stretched  in  our  aid — be  the  combat  our  own  ! 

And  we  '11  perish  or  conquer  more  proudly  alone ; 

For  we  've  sworn  by  our  Country's  assaulters, 

By  the  virgins  they've  dragged  from  our  altars, 

By  our  massacred  patriots,  our  children  in  chains, 

By  our  heroes  of  old,  and  their  blood  in  our  veins, 

That,  living,  we  shall  be  victorious, 

Or  that,  dying,  our  deaths  shall  bo  glorious. 


SONG  OF  THE  GEEEKS.  137 

A  breath  of  submission  we  breathe  not ; 

The  sword  that  we  've  drawn  we  will  sheatlu'  not ! 

Its  scabbard  is  left  where  our  martyrs  are  laid, 

And  the  vengeance  of  ages  has  whetted  its  blade. 

Earth  may  hide — waves  engulf — fire  consume  us, 

But  they  shall  not  to  slavery  doom  us : 

If  they  rule,  it  shall  be  o'er  our  ashes  and  graves ; 

But  we  've  smote  them  already   with    fire    on   the 

waves, 

And  new  triumphs  on  land  are  before  us, 
To  the  charge  ! — Heaven's  banner  is  o'er  us. 

This  day  shall  ye  blush  for  its  story, 

Or  brighten  your  lives  with  its  glory. 

Our  "women,  oh,  say,  shall  they  shriek  in  despair, 

Or  embrace  us  from  conquest  with  wreaths  in  their 

hair? 

Accursed  may  his  memory  blacken, 
If  a  coward  there  be  that  would  slacken 
Till  we  've   trampled  the  turban,  and  shown  tour- 

selves  worth 
Being  sprung  from  and  named  for  the  godlike  of 

earth. 

Strike  home,  and  the  world  shall  revere  us 
As  heroes  descended  from  heroes. 

Old  Greece  lightens  up  with  emotion 

Her  inlands,  her  isles  of  the  Ocean  ; 

Fanes  rebuilt  and  fair  towns  shall  with  jubilee  ring, 

And   the    Nine    shall   new-hallow  their   Helicon's 

spring : 

Our  hearths  shall  be  kindled  in  gladness, 
That  were  cold  and  extinguished  in  sadness ; 
Whilst  our  maidens  shall  dance  with  their  white- 
waving  arms,  [charms,- 
Singing  joy   to   the    brave    that    delivered    their 
When  the  blood  of  yon  Mussulman  cravens 
Shall  have  purpled  the  beaks  of  our  ravens. 


ODE  TO  WINTER. 


ODE  TO  WINTER. 

WHEN  first  the  fiery-mantled  sun 
His  heavenly  race  began  to  run ; 
Bound  the  earth  and  ocean  blue, 
His  children  four  the  Seasons  flew. 
First,  in  green  apparel  dancing, 

The  young  Spring  smiled  with  angel  grace ; 
Rosy  Summer  next  advancing, 

Rushed  into  her  sire's  embrace  : — 
Her  bright-haired  sire,  who  bade  her  keep 

For  ever  nearest  to  his  smiles, 
On  Calpe's  olive-shaded  steep, 

On  India's  citron-covered  isles : 
More  remote  and  buxom-brown, 

The  Queen  of  vintage  bowed  before  his  tlirone, 
A  rich  pomegranate  gemmed  her  crown, 

A  ripe  sheaf  bound  her  zone. 
But  howling  Winter  fled  afar, 
To  hills  that  prop  the  polar  star, 
And  loves  on  deer-borne  car  to  ride 
With  barren  Darkness  by  his  side, 
Round  the  shore  where  loud  Lofoden 

Whirls  to  death  the  roaring  whale, 
Round  the  hall  where  Runic  Oden 

Howls  his  war-song  to  the  gale ; 
Save  when  adown  the  ravaged  globe 

He  travels  on  his  native  storm, 
Deflowering  Nature's  grassy  robe, 

And  trampling  on  her  faded  form : — 
Till  light's  returning  lord  assume 

The  shaft  that  drives  him  to  his  polar  field, 
Of  power  to  pierce  his  raven  plume 

And  crystal-covered  shield. 
Oh,  sire  of  storms !  whose  savage  ear 
The  Lapland  drum  delights  to  hear, 


ODE  TO  WINTER.  130 

When  Frenzy  with  her  blood-shot  eye 
Implores  thy  dreadful  deity, 
Archangel !  power  of  desolation  ! 

Fast  descending  as  thou  art, 
Say,  hath  mortal  invocation 

Spells  to  touch  thy  stony  heart? 
Then,  sullen  Winter,  hear  my  prayer, 
And  gently  rule  the  ruined  year ; 
Nor  chill  the  wanderer's  bosom  bare, 
Nor  freeze  the  wretch's  falling  tear ; — 
To  shuddering  Want's  unmantled  bed 
Thy  horror-breathing  agues  cease  to  lead, 
And  gently  on  the  orphan  head 
Of  innocence  descend. — 
But  chiefly  spare,  0  king  of  clouds ! 
The  sailor  on  his  airy  shrouds ; 
When  wrecks  and  beacons  strew  the  steep, 
And  spectres  walk  along  the  deep. 
Milder  yet  thy  snowy  breezes 

Pour  on  yonder  tented  shores, 
Where  the  Rhine's  broad  billow  freezes, 

Or  the  dark-brown  Danube  roars. 
Oh,  winds  of  Winter !  list  ye  there 

To  many  a  deep  and  dying  groan  ; 
Or  start,  ye  demons  of  the  midnight  air, 

At  shrieks  and  thunders  louder  than  your  ovm. 
Alas  !  even  your  unhalknved  breath 

May  spare  the  victim  fallen  low ; 
But  man  will  ask  no  truce  to  death,— 

No  bounds  to  human  woe. 


140  LINES. 


LINES 

SPOKEN  BY  MRS.  HARTLEY  AT  DRURY-LAXE  THEATRE, 
ON  THE  FIRST  OPENING  OF  THE  HOUSE  AFTER  THE 
DEATH  OF  THE  PRINCESS  CHARLOTTE,  1817. 

BRITONS  !  although  our  task  is  but  to  show 
The  scenes  and  passions  of  fictitious  woe, 
Think  not  we  come  this  night  without  a  part 
In  that  deep  sorrow  of  the  public  heart, 
Which  like  a  shade  hath  darkened  every  place, 
And  moistened  with  a  tear  the  manliest  face  ! 
The  bell  is  scarcely  hushed  in  Windsors  piles, 
That  tolled  a  requiem  from  the  solemn  aisles, 
For  her,  the  royal  flower,  low  laid  in  dust, 
That  was  your  fairest  hope,  your  fondest  trust. 
Unconscious  of  the  doom,  we  dreamt,  alas ! 
That  even  these  walls,   ere  many  uionths   should 

pass, 

Which  but  return  sad  accents  for  her  now, 
Perhaps  had  witnessed  her  benignant  brow, 
Cheered  by  the  voice  you  would  have  raised  on  liigh, 
In  bursts  of  British  love  and  loyalty. 
But,  Britain  !  now  thy  chief,  thy  people  mourn, 
And  Claremont's  home  of  love  is  left  forlorn  : — 
There,  where  the  happiest  of  the  happy  dwelt 
The  'scutcheon  glooms,  and  royalty  hath  felt 
A  wound  that  every  bosom  feels  its  own, — 
The  blessing  of  a  father's  heart  o'erthrown — 
The  most  beloved  and  most  de voted  bride 
Tom  from  an  agonized  husband's  side, 
Who  "  long  as  Memory  holds  her  seat "  shall  view 
That  speechless,  more  than  spoken  last  adieu, 
When  the  tixed  eye  long  looked  connubial  faith, 
And  beamed  affection  in  the  trance  of  death. 
Sad  was  the  pomp  that  yesternight  beheld, 
As  with  the  mourners  heart  the  anthem  swelled 


LINES  ON  THE  GRAVE  OF  A  SUICIDE.        141 

While  torch  succeeding  torch  illumed  each  high 
And  bannered  arch  of  England's  chivalry. 
The  rich  plumed  canopy,  the  gorgeous  pall, 
The  sacred  march,  and  sable-vested  wall, — 
These  were  not  rites  of  inexpressive  show, 
But  hallowed  as  the  types  of  real  woe ! 
Daughter  of  England !  for  a  nation  sighs, 
A  nation's  heart,  went  with  thine  obsequies ! — 
And  oft  shall  time  revert  a  look  of  grief 
On  thine  existence,  beautiful  and  brief. 
Fair  spirit !  send  thy  blessing  from  above 
On  realms  where  thou  art  canonized  by  love ! 
Give  to  a  father's,  husband's  bleeding  mind, 
The  peace  that  angels  lend  to  human  kind ; 
To  us  who  in  thy  loved  remembrance  feel 
A  sorrowing,  but  a  soul-ennobling  zeal — 
A  loyalty  that  touches  all  the  best' 
And  loftiest  principles  of  England's  breast ! 
Still  may  thy  name  speak  concord  from  the  tomb- 
Still  in  the  Muse's  breath  thy  memory  bloom ! 
They  shall  describe  thy  life — thy  form  portray; 
But  all  the  love  that  mourns  thee  swept  away, 
7T  is  not  in  language  or  expressive  artt> 
To  paint — ye  feel  it,  Britons,  in  your  hearts  ! 


LINES  ON  THE  GRAVE  OF  A  SUICIDE. 

These  lines  were  written  in  Germany  in  January,  1801.  in  con- 
sequence of  seeing  the  unclaimed  corpse  of  a  suicide  exposed  on 
the  banks  of  a  river 

BY  strangers  left  upon  a  lonely  shore. 

Unknown,  unhonored,  was  the  friendless  dead; 
For  child  to  weep,  or  widow  to  deplore, 

There  never  came  to  his  unburied  head  : — 

All  from  his  dreary  habitation  fled. 
Xor  will  the  lanterned  fishermen  at  eve 

Launch  on  that  water  by  the  witche: '  tower, 


142  REULLURA. 

Where  hellebore  and  hemlock  seem  to  weave 

Round  its  dark  vaults  a  melancholy  bower 
4  For  spirits  of  the  dead  at  night's  enchanted  hour, 
They  dread  to  meet  thee,  poor  unfortunate  ! 

Whose  crime  it  was,  on  Life's  unfinished  road, 
To  feel  the  step-dame  bufferings  of  fate, 

And  render  back  thy  being's  heavy  load. 

Ah  !  once,  perhaps,  the  social  passions  glowed 
In  thy  devoted  bosom — and  the  hand 

That  smote  its  kindred  heart,  might  yet  be  prone 
To  deeds  of  mercy.     Who  may  understand 

Thy  many  woes,  poor  suicide,  unknown  ? — 

He  who  thy  being  gave  shall  judge  of  thee  alone. 


REULLURA.* 

STAR  of  the  morn  and  eve, 

Reullura  shone  like  thee, 
And  well  for  her  might  Aodh  grieve, 

The  dark-attired  Culdee. 
Peace  to  their  shades !  the  pure  (Juldees 

Were  Albin's  earliest  priests  of  God, 
Ere  yet  an  island  of  her  seas 

By  foot  of  Saxon  monk  was  trod, 
Long  ere  her  churchmen  by  bigotry 
Were  barred  from  wedlock's  holy  tie. 
T  was  then  that  Aodh,  famed  afar, 

In  lona  preached  the  word  with  power, 
And  Reullura,  beauty's  star, 

Was  the  partner  of  his  bower. 

But,  Aodh,  the  roof  lies  low,     . 

And  the  thistle-down  waves  bleaching, 

*  Reullura,  in  Gaellic,  signifies  "  beautiful  star." 


REULLURA. 

And  the  bat  flits  to  and  fro 

Where  the  Gael  once  heard  thy  preaching ; 
And  fallen  is  each  columned  aisle 

Where  the  chiefs  and  people  knelt. 
'T  was  near  that  temple's  goodly  pile 

That  honored  of  men  they  dwelt. 
For  Aodh  Avas  wise  in  the  sacred  law, 
And  bright  Reullura's  eyes  oft  saw 

The  veil  of  fate  uplifted. 
Alas,  with  what  visions  of  awe 

Her  soul  in  that  hour  was  gifted— 
When  pale  in  the  temple  and  faint, 

With  Aodh  she  stood  alone 
By  the  statue  of  an  aged  Saint ! 

Fair  sculptured  was  the  stone, 
It  bore  a  crucifix  ; 

Fame  said  it  once  had  graced 
A  Christian  temple,  which  the  Picts 

In  the  Briton's  land  laid  waste : 
The  Pictish  men,  by  St.  Columb  taught^ 
1  lad  hither  the  holy  relic  brought, 
lieullura  eyed  the  statue's  face, 

And  cried,  "  It  is,  he  shall  come, 
Even  he,  in  this  very  place, 

To  avenge  my  martyrdom. 

For  woe  to  the  Gael  people ! 

.Ulvfagre  is  on  the  main, 
And  lona  shall"  look  from  tower  and  steeple 

On  the  coming  ships  of  the  Dane ; 
And,  dames  and  daughters,  shall  all  your  locks 

With  the  spoiler's  grasp  entwine  I 
Xo  !  some  shall  have  shelter  in  caves  and  rocks, 

And  the  deep  sea  shall  be  mine. 
Baffled  by  me  shall  the  Dane  return, 
And  here  shall  his  torch  in  the  temple  burn 
Until  that  holy  man  shall  plough 

The  waves  from  Innisfail. 


144  REULLURA. 

His  sail  is  on  the  deep  e'en  now, 
And  swells  to  the  southern  gale." 

"  All !  know'st  thou  not,  my  bride," 

The  holy  Aodh  said, 

"  That  the  Saint  whose  form  we  stand  beside 
Has  for  ages  slept  with  the  dead  ?" 
"  He  liveth,  he  liveth,"  she  said  again, 

"  For  the  span  of  his  life  tenfold  extends 
Beyond  the  wonted  years  of  men. 

He  sits  by  the  graves  of  well-loved  friends 
That  died  ere  thy  grandsire's  grandsire's  birth ; 
The  oak  is  decayed  with  age  on  earth, 
Whose  acorn-seed  had  been  planted  by  Mm ; 

And  his  parents  remember  the  day  of  dread. 
When  the  sun  on  the  cross  looked  dim, 

And  the  graves  gave  up  their  dead. 
Yet  preaching  from  clime  to  clime, 

He  hath  roamed  the  earth  for  ages, 
And  hither  he  shall  come  in  time 

When  the  wrath  of  the  heathen  rages, 
In  time  a  remnant  from  the  sword — 

Ah !  but  a  remnant  to  deliver; 
Yet,  blest  be  the  name  of  the  Lord ! 

His  martyrs  shall  go  into  bliss  for  ever. 
Lochlin,*  appalled,  shall  put  up  her  steel, 
And  thou  shalt  embark  on  the  bounding  keel, 
Safe  shall  thou  pass  through  her  hundred  ships, 

With  the  Saint  and  a  remnant  of  the  Gael, 
And  the  Lord  will  instruct  thy  lips 

To  preach  in  Innisfail."  f 

The  sun,  now  about  to  set, 

Was  burning  o'er  Tiree, 
And  no  gathering  cry  rose  yet 

O'er  the  isles  of  Albin's  sea, 

*  Denmark.  t  Ireland. 


KEULLURA.  145 

Whilst  Reullura  saw  far  rowers  dip 

Their  oars  beneath  the  sun, 
And  the  phantom  of  many  a  Danish  ship, 

"Where  ship  there  yet  was  none. 
And  the  shield  of  alarm  was  dumb, 
Nor  did  their  warning  till  midnight  come, 
When  watch-fires  burst  from  across  the  main, 

From  Rona,  and  Uist,  and  Skye, 
To  tell  that  the  ships  of  the  Dane 

And  the  red-haired  slayers  were  nigh. 

Our  islemen  arose  from  slumbers, 

And  buckled  on  their  arms  ; 
But  few,  alas !  were  their  numbers 

To  Lochlin's  mailed  swarms. 
And  the  blade  of  the  bloody  Norse 

Has  filled  the  shores  of  the  Gael 
With  many  a  floating  corse, 

And  with  many  a  woman's  wail. 
They  have  lighted  the  islands  with  ruin's  torch, 
And  the  holy  men  of  lona's  church 
In  the  temple  of  God  lay  slain  ; 

All  but  Aodh,  the  last  Culdee, 
But  bound  with  many  an  iron  chain, 

Bound  in  that  church  was  he. 
And  where  is  Aodh's  bride  I 

Rocks  of  the  ocean  flood ! 
Plunged  she  not  from  your  heights  in  pride, 

And  mocked  the  men  of  blood  ? 
Then  TJlvfagre  and  his  bands 

In  the  temple  lighted  their  banquet  up, 
And  the  print  of  their  blood-red  hands 

Was  left  on  the  altar  cup. 
'T  was  then  that  the  Norseman  to  Aodh  said : 
"  Tell  me  where  thy  church's  treasure  's  laid, 
Or  I'll  hew  thee  limb  from  limb." 

As  he  spoke  the  bell  struck  three, 
And  every  torch  grew  dim 

That  lighted  their  revelry. 


146  EEULLUKA. 

But  the  torches  again  burnt  bright, 

And  brighter  than  before, 
When  an  aged  man  of  majestic  height 

Entered  the  temple  door. 
Hushed  was  the  revellers'  sound, 

They  were  struck  as  mute  as  the  dead, 
And  their  hearts  were  appalled  by  the  very  sound 

Of  his  footsteps'  measured  tread. 
Nor  word  was  spoken  by  one  beholder, 
Whilst  he  flung  his  white  robe  back  o'er  his  shoulder, 
And  stretching  his  arms — as  eath 

Unriveted  Aodh's  bands, 
As  if  the  gyves  had  been  a  wreath 

Of  willows  in  his  hands. 

All  saw  the  stranger's  similitude 

To  the  ancient  statue's  formj 
The  Saint  before  his  own  image  stood, 

And  grasped  Ulvfagre's  arm. 
Then  tip  rose  the  Danes  at  last  to  deliver 

Their  chief,  and  shouting  with  one  accord, 
They  drew  the  shaft  from  its  rattling  quiver, 

They  lifted  the  spear  and  sword, 
And  levelled  their  spears  in  rows. 
But  down  went  axes  and  spears  and  bows, 
When  the  Saint  with  his  crosier  signed, 

The  archer's  hand  on  the  string  was  stopt, 
And  down,  like  reeds  laid  flat  by  the  wind, 

Their  lifted  weapons  dropt. 
The  Saint  then  gave  a  signal  mute, 

And  though  Ulvfagre  willed  it  not, 
He  came  and  stood  at  the  statue's  foot, 

Spell-riveted  to  the  spot, 
Till  hands  invisible  shook  the  wall, 

And  the  tottering  image  was  dashed 
Down  from  its  lofty  pedestal. 

On  Ulvfagre's  helm  it  crashed — 
Helmet,  and  skull,  and  flesh,  and  brain, 
It  crushed  as  millstones  crush  the  grain. 


REULLURA.  147 

Then  spoke  the  Saint,  whilst  all  and  each 

Of  the  Heathen  trembled  round, 
And  the  pauses  amidst  his  speech 

Were  as  awful  as  the  sound : 

"  Go  back,  ye  wolves !  to  your  dens,"  he  cried, 

"  And  tell  the  nations  abroad, 
How  the  fiercest  of  your  herd  has  died, 

That  slaughtered  the  flock  of  God. 
Gather  him  bone  by  bone, 

And  take  with  you  o'er  the  flood 
The  fragments  of  that  avenging  stone 

That  drank  his  heathen  blood. 
These  are  the  spoils  from  lona's  sack. 

The  only  spoils  ye  shall  carry  back ; 
For  the  hand  that  uplifteth  spear  or  sword 

Shall  be  withered  by  palsy  shock, 
And  I  come  in  the  name  of  the  Lord 

To  deliver  a  remnant  of  his  flock." 

A  remnant  was  called  together, 

A  doleful  remnant  of  the  Gael, 
And  the  Saint  in  the  ship  that  had  brought  him 
hither 

Took  the  mourners  to  Innisfail. 
Unscathed  they  left  lona's  strand, 

When  the  opal  morn  first  flushed  the  sky. 
For  the  Norse  dropt  spear,  and  bow,  and  brand, 

And  looked  on  them  silently  5 
Safe  from  their  hiding-places  came 
Orphans  and  mothers,  child  and  dame: 
But,  alas !  when  the  search  for  Reullura  spread, 

No  answering  voice  was  given, 
For  the  sea  had  gone  o'er  her  lovely  head, 

And  her  spirit  was  in  Heaven, 


143  THE  TURKISH  LADY. 


THE  TURKISH  LADY. 

7T  WAS  the  hour  when  rites  unholy 
Called  each  Paynim  voice  to  prayer, 

And  the  star  that  faded  slowly 
Left  to  dews  the  freshened  air. 


Day  her  sultry  fires  had  wasted, 

Calm  and  sweet  the  moonlight  rose ; 

Even  a  captive  spirit  tasted 
Half  oblivion  of  his  woes. 

Then  7t  was  from  an  Emir's  palace 
Came  an  Eastern  lady  bright : 

She,  in  spite  of  tyrants  jealous, 
Saw  and  loved  an  English  knight. 

"  Tell  me,  captive,  why  in  anguish 
Foes  have  dragged  thee  here  to  dwell, 

Where  poor  Christians  as  they  languish 
Hear  no  sound  of  Sabbath  bell  f — 


''  ?T  was  on  Transylvania's  Bannat, 

When  the  Crescent  shone  afar, 
Like  a  pale,  disastrous  planet, 

O'er  the  purple  tide  of  war- 
In  that  day  of  desolation, 

Lady,  I  was  captive  made ; 
Bleeding  for  my  Christian  nation 

By  the  walls  of  high  Belgrade." 


THE  BRAVE  ROLAND.  149 

"  Captive !  could  the  brightest  jewel 

From  my  turban  set  thee  free  f 
"  Lady,  no— ^the  gift  were  cruel, 

Ransomed,  yet  if  reft  of  thee. 

Say,  fair  princess !  would  it  grieve  thc<-, 
Christian  climes  should  we  behold  ';'•' — 

"  Nay,  bold  knight !   I  would  not  leave  thru 
Were  thy  ransom  paid  in  gold ! " 

Now  in  Heaven's  blue  expansion 

Rose  the  midnight  star  to  view, 
"When  to  quit  her  father's  mansion 

Thrice  she  wept,  and  bade  adieu ! 

"  Fly  we  then,  while  none  discover ! 

Tyrant  barks,  in  vain  ye  ride  !" — 
Soon  at  Rhodes  the  British  lover 

Clasped  his  blooming  Eastern  bride. 


THE  BRAVE  ROLAND. 

THE  brave  Roland  ! — the  brave  Roland ! — 
False  tidings  reached  the  Rhenish  strand 

That  he  had  fall'n  in  fight ; 
And  thy  faithful  bosom  swooned  with  pain, 
O  loveliest  maid  of  Allemayne ! 

For  the  loss  of  thine  own  true  knight. 

But  why  so  rash  has  she  ta'en  the  veil, 
In  yon  Nonnenwerder's  cloisters  pale  ! 

For  her  vow  had  scarce  been  swoni, 
And  the  fatal  mantle  o'er  her  flung, 
When  the  Drachenfels  to  a  trumpet  rung — 

'T  was  her  own  dear  Warner's  horn  ! 


150  THE  BRAVE  ROLAND. 

Woe !  woe !  each  heart  shall  bleed — shall  break ! 
She  would  have  hung  upon  his  neck, 

Had  he  come  but  yester-even ! 
And  he  had  clasped  those  peerless  charms, 
That  shall  never,  never  fill  his  arms, 

Or  meet  him  but  in  heaven. 

Yet  Roland  the  brave — Roland  the  true — 
He  could  not  bid  that  spot  adieu  ; 

It  was  dear  still  midst  his  woes ; 
For  he  loved  to  breathe  the  neighboring  air, 
And  to  think  she  blessed  him  in  her  prayer, 

When  the  Halleluiah  rose. 

There's  yet  one  window  of  that  pile, 
Which  he  built  above  the  Nun's  green  isle ; 

Thence  sad  and  oft  looked  he  ' 
(When  the  chant  and  organ  sounded  slow) 
On  the  mansion  of  his  love  below, 

For  herself  he  might  not  see. 

She  died ! — he  sought  the  battle-plain ; 
Her  image  filled  his  dying  brain, 

When  he  fell  and  wished  10  fall : 
And  her  name  was  in  his  latest  sigh, 
When  Roland,  the  flower  of  chivalry  ? 

Expired  at  Roncevall. 


THE  SPECTKE  BOAT.  151 


THE  SPECTRE  BOAT. 

A   BALLAD. 

LIGHT  rued  false  Ferdinand  to  leave  a  lovely  maid 
forlorn, 

Who  broke  her  heart  and  died  to  hide  her  blushing- 
cheek  from  scorn. 

One  night  he  dreamt  he  wooed  her  in  their  wonted 
bower  of  love, 

Where  the  flowers  sprang  thick  around  them,  and 
the  birds  sang  sweet  above. 

But  the  scene  was  .swiftly  changed  into  a  church- 
yard's dismal  view, 

And  her  lips  grew  black  beneath  his  kiss,  from 
love's  delicious  hue. 

What  more  he  dreamt,  he  told  to  none ;  but  shud- 
dering, pale,  and  dumb, 

Looked  out  upon  the  waves,  like  one  that  knew  his 
hour  was  come. 

7T  was  now  the  dead  watch  of  the  night — the  helm 

was  lashed  a-lee, 
And  the  ship  rode  where  Mount  JEitnn  lights  the 

deep  Levantine  sea ; 
When  beneath  its  glare  a  boat  came,  rowed  by  a 

woman  in  her  shroud, 
Who,   with   eyes  that  made   our  blood  run  cold. 

stood  up  and  spoke  aloud : — 

"Come,  Traitor,  down,  for  whom  my  ghost  still 

wanders  unforgiven ! 
Come  down,  false  Ferdinand,  for  whom  I  broke  my 

peace  with  heaven  !" — 


152  THE  LOVER  TO  HIS  MISTRESS. 

It  was  vain  to  hold  the  victim,  for  he  plunged  to 

meet  her  call, 
Like  the  bird  that  shrieks  and  flutters  in  the  gazing1 

serpent's  thrall. 

You  may  guess  the  boldest  mariner  shrank  Jaunted 

from  the  sight, 
For  the  .Spectre  and  her  winding-sheet  shone  blue 

with  hideous  light ; 
Like  a  fiery  wheel  the  boat  spun  with  the  waving 

of  her  hand, 
And  round  they  went,  and  down  they  went,  as  the 

cock  crew  from  the  land. 


THE  LOVER  TO  HIS  MISTRESS. 

OX    HER   BIRTHDAY. 

IF  any  white-winged  Power  above 
My  joys  and  griefs  survey, 

The  day  when  thou  wert  bom,  my  love- 
He  surely  blessed  that  day. 

I  laughed  (till  taught  by  thee)  when  told 

Of  Beauty's  magic  powers, 
That  ripened  life's  dull  ore  to  gold, 

And  changed  its  weeds  to  flowers. 

My  mind  had  lovely  shapes  portrayed ; 

But  thought  I  earth  had  one 
Could  make  even  Fancy's  visions  fade 

Like  stars  before  the  sun  ? 

I  gazed,  and  felt  upon  my  lips 

The  unfinished  accents  hang  : 
/)ne  moment's  bliss,  one  burning  kiss, 
To  rapture  changed  each  pang. 


ADELGITHA.  153 

And  though  as  swift  as  lightning's  flash 

Those  tranced  moments  flew, 
Not  all  the  waves  of  time  shall  wash 

Their  memory'  from  my  view. 

But  duly  shall  my  raptured  song, 

And  gladly  shall  my  eyes, 
Still  bless  this  day's  return,  as  long 

As  thou  shalt  see  it  rise. 


SONG. 

OH,  how  hard  it  is  to  find 

The  one  just  suited  to  our  mind; 

And  if  that  one  should  be 
False,  unkind,  or  found  too  late, 
What  can  we  do  but  sigh  at  fate, 

And  sing,  Woe  's  me — Woe  's  me  ? 

Love  's  a  boundless  burning  waste, 
Where  Bliss's  stream  we  seldom  taste, 

And  still  more  seldom  flee 
Suspense's  thorns,  Suspicion's  stings ; 
Yet  somehow  Love  a  something  brings 

That 's  sweet — ev'n  when  we  sigh,  '  Woe 
me!' 


ADELGITHA. 

THE  ordeal's  fatal  trumpet  sounded, 
And  sad  pale  ADELGITHA  came, 

When  forth  a  valiant  champion  bounded, 
And  slew  the  slanderer  of  her  fame. 


154  LINES. 

She  wept,  delivered  from  her  danger  ; 

But  when  he  knelt  to  claim  her  glove — 
"  Seek  not,"  she  cried,  li  oh  !  gallant  stranger, 

For  hapless  ADELGITHA'S  love. 

• 

For  he  is  iu  a  foreign  far  land 

Whose  arm  should  now  have  set  me  free  j 
And  I  must  wear  the  willow  garland 

For  him  that  's  dead,  or  false  to  me." 

"Nay !    say  not  that  his  faith  is  tainted  !'' — 
He  raised  his  vizor. — At  the  sight 

She  fell  into  his  arms  and  fainted  ; 
It  was  indeed  her  own  true  knight ! 


LINES 

ON  RECEIVING  A  SEAL   WITH   THE   CAMPBELL    CREST 
FROM  K.  M .,  BEFORE  HER  MARRIAGE. 

THIS  wax  returns  not  back  more  fair 
Th'  impression  of  the  gift  you  send, 

Than  stamped  upon  my  thoughts  I  bear 
The  image  of  your  worth,  my  friend ! — 

We  are  not  friends  of  yesterday ; — 

But  poets'  fancies  are  a  little 
Disposed  to  heat  and  cool,  (they  say.)—' 

By  turns  impressible  and  brittle. 

Well !  should  its  frailty  e'er  condemn 
My  heart  to  prize  or  please  you  less, 

Your,  type  is  still  the  sealing  gem, 
And  mine  the  waxen  brittleness. 


LINES. 

What  transcripts  of  my  weal  and  woe 
This  little  signet  yet  may  lock, — 

What  -utterances  to  friend  or  foe, 
In  reason's  calm  or  passion's  shock ! 

What  scenes  of  life's  yet  curtained  stage 

May  own  its  confidential  die, 
Whose  stamp  awaits  th'  unwritten  page, 

And  feelings  of  futurity  !- 

Yet  wh^resoe'er  my  pen  I  lift 

To  date  the  epistolary  sheet, 
The  blest  occasion  of  the  gift 

Shall  make  its  recollection  sweet  j 

Sent  when  the  star  that  rules  your  fates 
Hath  reached  its  influence  most  benign — 

When  every  heart  congratulates. 
And  none  more  cordially  than  mine. 

So  speed  my  song — marked  with  the  crest 
That  erst  the  advent'rous  Norman  wore, 

Who  won  the  lady  of  the  West 
The  daughter  of  Macaillan  Mor. 

Crest  of  my  sires  !  whose  blood  it  sealed 
With  glory  in  the  strife  of  swords, 

Ne'er  may  the  scroll  that  bears  it  yield 
Degenerate  thoughts  or  faithless  -words  I 

Yet  little  might  I  prize  the  stone, 

If  it  but  typed  the  feudal  tree 
From  whence,  a  scattered  leaf,  I'm  blown 

In  Fortune's  mutability. 

No ! — but  it  tells  me  of  a  heart 
Allied  by  friendship's  living  tie ; 

A  prize  beyond  the  herald's  art — 
Our  soul-sprung  consanguinity  ! 


GILDEROY. 

KATH'RINE  !  to  many  an  hour  of  mine 
Light  wings  and  sunshine  you  have  lent; 

And  so  adieu,  and  still  be  thine 
The  all-in-all  of  life— Content ! 

1817. 


GILDEROY. 

• 
Tin:  last,  the  fatal  hour  is  come, 

That  bears  my  love  from  me  :  • 
I  hear  the  dead  note  of  the  drum, 

I  mark  the  gallows'  tree  ! 

The  bell  has  tolled  ;  it  shakes  my  heart  ; 

The  trumpet  speaks  thy  name  ; 
And  must  my  Gilderoy  depart 

To  bear  a  death  of  shame  ? 


bosom  trembles  for  thy  doom  ; 
No  mourner  wipes  a  tear  ; 
The  gallows'  foot  is  all  thy  tomb, 
Tlie  sledge  is  all  thy  bier. 

()li,  Gilderoy  !  bethought  we  then 

v  O 

So  soon,  so  sad  to  part, 
When  first  in  Roslin's  lovely  glen 
You  triumphed  o'er  my  heart  t 

Your  locks  they  glittered  to  the  sheen, 
Your  hunter  garb  was  trim  ; 

And  graceful  was  the  ribbon  green 
That  bound  your  manly  limb  ! 

Ah  !  little  thought  I  to  deplore 
Those  limbs  in  fetters  bound; 

Oi  hear,  upon  the  scaffold  floor, 
The  midnight  hammer  Bound. 


STANZAS.  ir.7 

Ye  cracl,  crael,  that  combined 

The  guiltless  to  pursue ; 
My  Gilderoy  was  ever  kind, 

He  could  not  injure  you ! 

A  long  adieu !  but  where  shall  fly 

Thy  widow  all  forlorn, 
When  every  mean  and  cruel  eye 

Regards  my  woe  with  scorn  f 

Yes  !  they  will  mock  thy  widow's  tears, 

And  hate  thine  orphan  boy ; 
Alas  !  his  infant  beauty  wears 

The  form  of  Gilderoy. 

Then  will  I  seek  the  dreary  mound 

That  wraps  thy  mouldering  clay, 
And  weep  and  linger  on  the  ground, 

And  sigh  my  heart  away. 


STANZAS 

ON   THE   THREATENED   INVASION. 
1803. 

Orn  bosoms  we  '11  bare  for  the  glorious  strife, 

And  our  oath  is  recorded  on  high, 
To  prevail  in  the  cause  that  is  dearer  than  life, 

Or  crushed  in  its  ruins  to  die ! 

Then  rise,  fellow  freemen,  and  stretch  the  right  hand, 
And  swear  to  prevail  in  your  dear  native  land ! 

'T  is  the  home  we  hold  sacred  is  laid  to  our  trust— 
God  bless  the  green  Isle  of  the  brave  ! 

Should  a  conqueror  tread  on  our  forefathers'  dust, 
It  would  rouse  the  old  dead  from  their  grave  ! 

Then  rise,  fellow  freemen,  and  stretch  the  right  h:::;u, 

And  swear  to  prevail  in  your  uear  native  land .' 


158  THE  BITTER  BANN. 

In  a  Briton's  sweet  home  shall  a  spoiler  abide, 

Profaning  its  loves  and  its  charms  ? 
Shall  a  Frenchman  insult  the  loved  fair  at  our  side  ? 

To  arms  !  oh,  my  Country,  to  arms !    . 
Then    rise,  fellow   freemen,   and    stretch   the    right 

hand, 
And  swear  to  prevail  in  your  dear  native  land  ! 

Shall  a  tyrant  enslave  us,  my  countrymen  ! — No  ! 

His  head  to  the  sword  shall  be  given — 
A  death-bed  repentance  be  taught  the  proud  foe, 

And  his  blood  be  an  offering  to  Heaven  ! 
Then   rise,    fellow   freemen,  and   stretch    the    right 

hand, 
And  swear  to  prevail  in  your  dear  native  land ! 


THE  RITTER  BANN. 

THE  Ritter  Bann  from  Hungary 
Came  back,  renowned  in  arms, 

But  scorning  jousts  of  chivalry, 
And  love  and  ladies'  charms. 

While  other  knights  held  revels,  he 
Was  wrapt  in  thoughts  of  gloom, 

And  in  Vienna's  hostelrie 
Slow  paced  his  lonely  room. 

There  entered  one  whose  face  he  knew— 

Whose  voice,  he  was  aware, 
He  oft  at  mass  had  listened  to 

In  the  holy  house  of  prayer. 

JT  was  the  Abbot  of  St.  James's  monks, 

A  fresh  and  fair  old  man  : 
His  reverend  air  arrested  even 

The  gloomy  Ritter  Bann. 


THE  BITTER  BANN.  159 

But  seeing  with  him  an  ancient  dame 

Come  clad  in  Scotch  attire, 
The  Hitter's  color  went  and  came, 

And  loud  he  spoke  in  ire : 

"Ha !  nurse  of  her  that  was  my  bane, 

Name  not  her  name  to  me ; 
I  wish  it  blotted  from  my  brain : 

Art  poor? — take  alms,  and  flee." 

"  Sir  Knight/'  the  abbot  interposed, 

"  This  case  your  ear  demands ;" 
And  the  crone  cried,  with  a  cross  enclosed 

In  both  her  trembling  hands, 

"  Remember,  each  his  sentence  waits ; 

And  he  that  shall  rebut 
Sweet  Mercy's  suit,  on  him  the  gates 

Of  Mercy  shall  be  shut. 

You  wedded,  undispensed  by  Church, 

Your  cousin  Jane  in  Spring ;  — 
In  Autumn,  when  you  went  to  search 

For  churchman's  pardoning, 

Her  house  denounced  your  marriage-l>aml, 

Betrothed  her  to  De  Grey, 
And  the  ring  you  put  upon  her  hand 

Was  wrenched  by  force  away. 

Then  wept  your  Jane  upon  my  neck, 

Crying  '  Help  me,  nurse,  to  flee 
To  my  Howel  Bann's  Glamorgan  hills ;' 

But  word  arrived — ah  me ! — 

You  were  not  there ,  and 't  was  their  threat, 

By  foul  means  or  by  fair, 
To-morrow  morning  was  to  set 

The  seal  on  her  despair. 


160  THE  BITTER  BANN. 

I  had  a  son,  a  sea-boy,  in 

A  ship  at  Hartland  Bay, 
By  his  aid  from  her  cruel  kin 

I  bore  my  bird  away. 

* 
To  Scotland  from  the  Devon's 

Green  myrtle  shores  we  fled ; 
And  the  Hand  that  sent  the  ravens 

To  Elijah,  gave  us  bread. 

She  wrote  you  by  my  son,  but  he 

From  England  sent  us  word 
You  had  gone  into  some  far  countrie, 

In  grief  and  gloom  he  heard. 

For  they  that  wronged  you,  to  elude 
Your  wrath,  defamed  my  child ; 

And  you — ay,  blush,  Sir,  as  you  should — 
Believed,  and  were  beguiled. 

To  (lie  but  at  your  feet,  she  vowed 

To  roam  the  world  ;  and  we 
Would  both  have  sped  and  begged  our  bread, 

But  so  it  might  not  be. 

For  when  the  snow-storm  beat  our  roof, 

She  bore  a  boy,  Sir  Bann, 
"Who  grew  as  fair  your  likeness'  proof 

As  child  e'er  grew  like  man. 

'T  was  smiling  on  that  babe  one  morn 
"While  heath  bloomed  on  the  moor, 

Her  beauty  struck  young  Lord  Kinghom 
As  he  hunted  past  our  door. 

She  shunned  him,  but  he  raved  of  Jane, 
And  roused  his  mother's  pride : 

Who  came  to  us  in  high  disdain, — 
1  And  where's  the  face,'  she  cried, 


THE  RITTER  BANK 

'  Has  witched  my  boy  to  wish  for  one 

So  wretched  for  his  wife  ? 
Dost  love  thy  husband !     Know,  my  ^ou 

Has  sworn  to  seek  his  life.' 

Her  anger  sore  dismayed  us, 
For  our  mite  was  wearing  scant, 

And,  unless  that  dame  would  aid  us, 
There  was  none  to  aid  our  want. 

So  I  told  her,  weeping  bitterly, 

What  all  our  woes  had  been ; 
And,  though  she  was  a  stern  ladie, 

The  tears  stood  in  her  een. 

And  she  housed  us  both,  when,  cheerfully, 

My  child  to  her  had  sworn, 
That  even  if  made  a  widow,  she 

AYonld  never  wed  Kinghorn." 

Here  paused  the  nurse,  and  then  began 

The  abbot,  standing  by : 
u  Three  months  ago  a  wounded  man 

To  our  abbey  came  to  die. 

He  heard  me  long,  with  ghastly  eyes 

And  hand  obdurate  clenched, 
Spoke  of  the  worm  that  never  die?, 

And  the  fire  that  is  not  quenched 

At  last  by  what  this  scroll  attests 

He  left  atonement  brief, 
For  years  of  anguish  to  the  breasts 

His  guilt  had  wrung  with  grief. 

'  There  lived,'  he  said,  '  a  fair  young-  dame 

Beneath  my  mother's  roof; 
I  loved  her,  but  against  my  flame 

Her  purity  was  proof. 


1G2  THE  RITTER  BANN. 

1  feigned  repentance,  friendship  pure ; 

That  mood  she  did  not  check, 
But  let  her  husband's  miniature 

Be  copied  from  her  neck, 

As  means  to  search  him  ;  my  deceit 

Took  care  to  him  was  borne 
Nought  but  his  picture's  counterfeit, 

And  Jane's  reported  scorn. 

•  • 

The  treachery  took :  she  waited  wild ; 

My  slave  came  back  and  lied 
"Whate'er  I  wished ;  she  clasped  her  child, 

And  swooned,  and  all  but  died. 

I  felt  her  tears  for  years  and  years 

Quench  not  my  flame,  but  stir ; 
The  very  hate  I  bore  her  mate 

Increased  my  love  for  her. 

Fame  told  us  of  his  glory,  while 
Joy  flushed  the  face  of  Jane ;          . 

And  while  she  blessed  his  name,  her  smile 
Struck  fire  into  my  brain. 

No  fears  could  damp  j  I  reached  the  camp, 

Sought  out  its  champion ; 
And  if  my  broad-sword  failed  at  last, 

JT  was  long  and  well  laid  on. 

This  wound 's  my  meed,  iny  name 's  Kinghoru, 
My  foe 's  the  Bitter  Banii.' 

The  wafer  to  his  lips  was  borne, 
And  we  shrived  the  dying  man. 

He  died  not  till  you  went  .to  fight 

The  Turks  at'Warradein; 
But  I  see  my  tale  has  changed  you  pale." — 

The  abbot  went  for  wine ; 


THE  BITTER  BANN.  K',3 

And  brought  a  little  page  who  poured 

It  out,  and  knelt  and  smiled ; — 
The  stunned  knight  saw  himself  restored 

To  childhood  in  his  child; 

And  stooped  and  caught  him  to  his  breast, 

Laughed  loud  and  wept  anon, 
And  with  a  shower  of  kisses  pressed 

The  darling  little  one. 

"And  where  went  Jane?" — "  To  anunnery.  Sir — -f 

Look  not  again  so  pale — 
Kinghorn's  old  dame  grew  harsh  to  her."- 

'<  And  has  she  ta'en  the  veil?" — 

"  Sit  down,  Sir,"  said  the  priest,  "  I  bar 
Rash  words." — They  sat  all  three, 

And  the  boy  played  with  the  knight's  broad  star 
As  he  kept  him  on  his  knee. 

"  Think  ere  you  ask  her  dwelling-place, 

The  abbot  further  said ; 
"  Time  draws  a  veil  o'er  beauty's  face 

More  deep  than  cloister's  shade. 

Grief  may  have  made  her  what  you  can 

Scarce  love  perhaps  for  life." 
u  Hush,  abbot,"  cried  the  Ritter  Bann, 

"  Or  tell  me  where  's  my  wife." 

The  priest  undid  two  doors  that  hid 

The  inn's  adjacent  room, 
And  there  a  lovely  woman  stood, 

Tears  bathed  her  beauty's  bloom. 

One  moment  may  with  bliss  repay 

Unnumbered  hours  of  pain ; 
Such  was  the  throb  and  mutual  sob 

Of  the  knight  embracing  Jane. 


101  SONG. 


SONG. 


n 


"MEN   OF  ENGLAND. 

MEN  of  England !  who  inherit 

Rights  that  cost  your  sires  their  blood ! 
Men  whose  undegenerate  spirit 

I  las  been  proved  on  field  and  flood  :-— 

]>y  the  foes  you've  fought  uncounted, . 

By  the  glorious  deeds  ye  've  done, 
Trophies  captured — breaches  mounted, 

Navies  conquered — kingdoms  won. 

Yet,  remember,  England  gathers 
Hence  but  fruitless  wreaths  of  fame, 

If  tlie  freedom  of  your  fathers 

(How  not  in  your  hearts  the  same. 

AVhat  are  monuments  of  bravery, 
AY  here  no  public  virtues  bloom  ? 

What  avail  in  lands  of  slavery, 
Tropbied  temples,  arch,  and  tomb  ? 

Pageants  ! — Let  the  world  revere  us 
For  our  people's  rights  and  laws, 

And  the  breasts  of  civic  heroes 
Bared  in  Freedom's  holy  cause. 

Yours  are  Hampden's,  Russell's  glory, 
Sidney's  matchless  shade  is  yours, — • 

Martyrs  in  heroic  story, 

Worth  a  hundred  Agincourts ! 

"We  're  the  sons  of  sires  that  baffled 
Crowned  and  mitred  tyranny; — 

They  defied  the  field  and  scaffold 
For  their  birthrights — so  will  we ! 


THE  HARPER. 


SONG. 

DRINK  ye  to  her  that  each  loves  best, 

And  if  you  nurse  a  flame 
That's  told  but  to  her  mutual  Mi-east, 

We  will  not  ask  her  name. 

l^nough,  while  memory  tranced  and  glad 

Paints  silently  the  fair, 
That  each  should  dream  of  joys  he  's  had, 

Or  yet  may  hope  to  share. 

Yet  far,  far  hence  be  jest  or  boast 
From  hallowed  thoughts  so  dear ; 

But  drink  to  her  that  each  loves  most, 
As  she  would  love  to  hear. 


THE  HARPER. 

Ox  the  green  banks  of  Shannon,  when  Sheelah  was 

nigh, 

No  blithe  Irish  lad  was  so  happy  as  I ; 
No  harp  like  my  own  could  so  cheerily  play, 
And  wherever  I  went  was  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

When  at  last  I  was  forced  from  my  Sheelah  to  partr 
She  said,  (while  the  sorrow  was  big  at  her  heart,) 
Oh  !  remember  your  Sheelah  when  far,  far  away : 
And  be  kind,  my  dear  Pat,  to  our  poor  dog  Tray. 

Poor  dog !  he  was  faithful  and  kind,  to  be  sure, 
And  he  constantly  loved  me,  although  I  was  poor ; 
When  the  sour-looking  folks  sent  me  heartless  away, 
I  hail  always  a  friend  in  my  poor  dog  Tray. 


166  THE  WOUNDED  HUSSAR. 

When  the  road  was  so  dark,  and  the  night  was  so 

cold, 

And  Pat  and  his  dog  were  grown  weary  and  old, 
How  snugly  we  slept  in  my  old  coat  of  gray, 
And  he  licked  me  for  kindness — my  poor  dog  Tray. 

Though  my  Pallet  was  scant,  I  remembered  his 

case, 

Nor  refused  my  last  crust  to  his  pitiful  face  j 
But  he  died  at  my  feet  on  a  cold  winter  day, 
And  I  played  a  sad  lament  for  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

Where  now  shall  I  go,  poor,  forsaken,  and  blind  ? 
Can  I  find  one  to  guide  me,  so  faithful,  and  kind  ? 
To  my  sweet  native  village,  so  far,  far  away, 
I  can  never  more  return  with  my  poor  dog  Tray. 


THE  WOUNDED  HUSSAR. 

ALOXE  to  the  banks  of  the  dark-rolling  Danube 
Fair  Adelaide  hied  when  the  battle  was  o'er : — 

"  Oh  whither,"  she  cried,  "  hast  thou  wandered,  my 

lover, 
Or  here  dost  thou  welter  and  bleed  en  the  shore "? 

What   voice    did    I    hear  ?  't  was   my  Henry    that 

sighed !" 

All  mournful  she  hastened,  nor  wandered  she  far. 
When  bleeding,  and  low,  on  the  heath  she  descried, 
By  the  light    of   the   moon,    her    poor    wounded 
Hussar ! 

From   his  bosom  that   heaved,  the  last  torrent  was 

streaming, 

And  pale  was  his  visage,  deep    marked  with    a 
scar! 


THE  WOUNDED  HUSSAR.  107 

And  dim  was  that  eye,  once  expressively  beaming, 
That  melted  in  love,  and  that  kindled  in  war ! 

How  smit  was  poor  Adelaide's  heart  at  the  sight ! 

How  bitter  she  wept  o'er  the  victim  of  war  ! 
"  Hast  thou  come,  my  fond  Love,  this  last  sorrowf:;! 

night, 

To   cheer  the  lone   heart  of  your  wounded   Hus- 
sar !" 

"  Thou   shalt  live,"   she  replied,   "  Heaven's   mercy 

relieving, 
Each    anguishing    wound,    shall     forbid     me    to 

mourn !" — 

tl  Ah  no  !  the  last  pang  of  my  bosom  fs  heaving  ! 
No  light  of  the  morn  shall  to  Henry  return  ! 

Thou  charmer  of  life,  ever  tender  and  true  ! 

Ye  babes  of  my  love,  that  await  me  afar  !'' — 
His  faltering  tongue  scarce  could  murmur  adieu, 

When  he   sunk   in  her  arms — the  poor  wounded 
Hussar ! 


163  LINES. 

LINES 

WRITTEN  ON  VISITING   A  SCENE  IN  ARGYLESHIKE. 

AT  the  silence  of  twilight's  contemplative  hour, 

I  have  mused  in  a  sorrowful  mood, 
On  the  wind-shaken  weeds  that  embosom  the  Lower 

Where  the  home  of  my  forefathers  stood. 
All  ruined  and  wild  is  their  roofless  abode, 

And  lonely  the  dark  raven's  sheltering  tree : 
And  travelled  by  few  is  the  grass-covered  road, 
Where  the  hunter  of  deer  and  the  warrior  trode. 

To  his  hills  that  encircle  the  sea. 

Yet  wandering,  I  found  on  my  ruinous  walk, 

By  the  dial-stone  aged  and  green, 
One  rose  of  the  wilderness  left  on  its  stalk, 

To  mark  where  a  garden  had  been. 
Like  a  brotherless  hermit,  the  last  of  its  race, 

All  wild  in  the  silence  of  nature,  it  drew, 
From  each  wandering  sunbeam,  a  lonely  embrace, 
For  the  night- weed    and    thorn    overshadowed    the 
place, 

Where  the  flower  of  my  forefathers  grew. 

Sweet  bud  of  the  wilderness !  emblem  of  all 

That  remains  in  this  desolate  heart ! 
The  fabric  of  bliss  to  its  centre  may  fall, 

But  patience  shall  never  depart  ! 

Though  the  wilds   of  enchantment,  all   vernal   and 
bright, 

In  the  days  of  delusion  by  fancy  combined 
With  the  vanishing  phantoms  of  love  and  delight 
Abandon  my  soul,  like  a  dream  of  the  night, 

And  leave  but  a  desert  behind. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM.  100 

Be-hushed,  my  dark  spirit !  for  wisdom  condemns 

When  the  faint  and  the  feeble  deplore; 
Be  strong1  as  the  rock  of  the  ocean  that  stems 

A  thousand  wild  waves  on  the  shore  ! 
Through  the  perils  of  chance,  and  the  scowl  of  dis- 
dain, 

May  thy  front  be  unaltered,  thy  courage  elate  ! 
Yea  !  even  the  name  I  have  worshipped  in  vain 
rihall  awake  not  the  sigh  of  remembrance  again  : 

To  bear  is  to  conquer  our  fate. 

1800. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 

OUR    bugles    sang  truce — for  the   night-cloud    had 
lowered, 

And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky ; 
And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  overpowered, 

The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw, 
By  the  wolf-scaring  fagot  that  guarded  the  slain 

At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision  I  saw, 
And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamt  it  again. 

Methought  from  the  battle-field's  dreadful  array, 
Far,  far  I  had  roamed  on  a  desolate  track ; 

JT  was  Autumn, — and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 
To   the  home   of  my  fathers,   that   welcomed  me 
back. 

I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  traversed  so  oft 

In    life's    morning    march,    when   my  bosom  was 

young; 
I  heard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating  aloft, 

And  knew  the   sweet  strain  that  the   corn-reapers 
sung. 

H 


170  HALLOWED  GROUND. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I  swore, 
From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never  to 
part; 

My  little  ones  kissed  me  a  thousand  times  o'er, 
And  my  wife  sobbed  aloud  in  her  fulness  of  heart. 

Stay,  stay  with  us, — rest,  thou  art  weary  and  worn  : 
And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay  5 — 

But  sorrow  returned  Math  the  dawning  of  morn, 
And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away. 


HALLOWED  GROUND. 

WHAT  's  hallowed  ground  ?     Has  earth  a  clod 
Its  maker  meant  not  should  be  trod 
By  man,  the  image  of  his  God 

Erect  and  free, 
ITnscourged  by  Superstition's  rod 

To  bow  the  knee  ? 

That  's    hallowed    ground — where,   mourned    and" 

missed, 

The  lips  repose  our  love  has  kissed : — 
But  where  's  their  memory's  mansion  '?    Is  Jt 

Yon  churchyard's  bowers  ? 
No  !  in  ourselves  their  souls  exist, 

A  part  of  ours. 

A  kiss  can  consecrate  the  ground 
Where  mated  hearts  are  mutual  bound : 
The  spot  where  love's  first  links  were  wound, 

That  ne'er  are  riven, 
Is  hallowed  down  to  earth's  profound, 

And  up  to  Heaven ! 


HALLOWED  GROUND.  171 

For  time  makes  all  but  true  love  old ; 
The  burning  thoughts  that  then  were  told 
Hun  molten  still  in  memory's  mould ; 

And  will  not  cool, 
Until  the  heart  itself  be  cold, 

In  Lethe's  pool. 

"What  hallows  ground  where  heroes  sleep  ? 
'T  is  not  the  sculptured  piles  you  heap ! 
In  dews  that  heavens  far  distant  weep 

Their  turf  may  bloom ; 
Or  Genii  twine  beneath  the  deep 

Their  coral  tomb : 

But  strew  his  ashes  to  the  wind 

Whose  sword  or  voice  has  served  mankind— 

And  is  he  dead,  whose  glorious  mind 

Lifts  thine  on  high  ? — 
To  live  in  hearts  we  leave  behind, 

Is  not  to  die. 

Is  't  death  to  fall  for  Freedom's  right? 
He  's  dead  alone  that  lacks  her  light ! 
And  murder  sullies  in  Heaven's  sight 

The  sword  he  draws : — 
What  can  alone  ennoble  fight  ? 

A  noble  cause ! 

Give  that !  and  welcome  War  to  brace 

Her  drums !  and  rend  Heaven's  reeking  space ! 

The  colors  planted  face  to  face, 

The  charging  cheer, 
Though  Death's  pale  horse  lead  on  the  chase, 

Shall  still  be  dear. 

And  place  our  trophies  where  men  kneel 
To  Heaven  !  but  Heaven  rebukes  my  zeal. 
The  cause  of  Truth  and  human  weal, 


172  HALLOWED  GROUND. 

0  God  above ! 

Transfer  it  from  the  sword's  appeal 
To  Peace  and  Love. 

Peace,  Love !  the  cherubim,  that  join 
Their  spread  wings  o'er  Devotion's  shrine, 
Prayers  sound  in  vain,  and  temples  shine, 

Where  they  are  not — 
The  heart  alone  can  make  divine 

Religion's  spot. 

To  incantations  dost  thou  trust, 
And  pompous  rites  in  domes  august  ? 
See  mouldering  stones  and  metal's  rust 

Belie  the  vaunt, 
That  men  can  bless  one  pile  of  dust 

With  chime  or  chaunt. 

The  ticking  wood-worm  mocks  thee,  man ! 

Thy  temples — creeds  themselves  grow  wan 

But  there's  a  dome  of  nobler  span, 
A  temple  given 

Thy  faith,  that  bigots  dare  not  ban- 
Its  space  is  Heaven ! 

Its  roof  star-pictured  Nature's  ceiling, 
Where  trancing  the  rapt  spirit's  feeling, 
And  God  himself  to  man  revealing, 

The  harmonious  spheres 
Make  music,  though  unheard  their  pealing 

By  mortal  ears. 

Fair  stars  !  arc  not  your  beings  pure  ? 
Can  sin,  can  death,  your  worlds  obscure  ? 
Else  why  so  swell  the  thoughts  at  your 

Aspect  above  ? 
Ye  must  be  Heavens  that  make  us  sure 

Of  heavenly  love  ! 


SONG.  173 

And  in  your  harmony  sublime 
I  read  the  doom  of  distant  time  : 
That  man's  regenerate  soul  from  crime 

Shall  yet  be  drawn, 
And  reason  on  his  mortal  clime 

Immortal  dawn. 

What's  hallowed  ground  ?     'T  is  what  gives  birth 
To  sacred  thoughts  in  souls  of  worth  ! — 
Peace!  Independence!  Truth!  go  forth 

Karth's  compass  round ; 
And  your  high  priesthood  shall  make  earth 

All  hallowed  ground. 


SONG. 

WITHDRAW  not  yet  those  lips  and  fingers, 
Whose  touch  to  mine  is  rapture's  spell ; 

Life's  joy  for  us  a  moment  lingers, 

And  death  seems  in  the  word — Farewell. 

The  hour  that  bids  us  part  and  go, 

It  sounds  not  yet, — oh  !  no,  no,  no  ! 

Time,  whilst  I  gaze  upon  thy  sweetness, 
Flies  like  a  courser  nigh  the  goal ; 

To-morrow  where  shall  be  his  fleetness, 
When  thou  art  parted  from  my  soul  'I 

Our  hearts  shalt  beat,  our  tears  shall  flow, 
But  not  together — no,  no,  no ! 


174  CAROLINE. 


CAROLINE. 


PART  I. 

I  'LL  bid  the  hyacinth  to  blow, 

I  '11  teach  my  grotto  green  to  be ; 
And  sing  my  true  love,  all  below 

The  holly  bower  and  myrtle  tree. 

There  all  his  wild-wood  sweets  to  bring, 
The  sweet  South  wind  shall  wander  by, 

And  with  the  music  of  bis  wing 
Delight  my  rustling  canopy. 

Come  to  my  close  and  clustering  bower, 

Thou  spirit  of  a  milder  clime, 
Fresh  with  the  dews  of  fruit  and  flower, 

Of  mountain  heath,  and  moory  thyme. 

With  all  thy  rural  echoes  come, 

Sweet  comrade  of  the  rosy  day, 
Wafting  the  wild  bee's  gentle  hum, 

Or  cuckoo's  plaintive  roundelay. 

Where'er  thy  morning  breath  has  played, 

Whatever  isles  of  ocean  fanned, 
Come  to  my  blossom-woven  shade, 

Thou  wandering  wind  of  fairy-land. 

For  sure  from  some  enchanted  isle, 

Where  Heaven  and  Love  their  sabbath  hold, 
Where  pure  and  happy  spirits  smile, 

Of  beauty's  fairest,  brightest  mould : 


CAROLINE.  175 

From  some  green  Eden  of  the  deep, 
Where  Pleasure's  sigh  alone  is  heaved, 

Where  tears  of  rapture  lovers  weep, 
Endeared,  undoubting,  undeceived : 

From  some  sweet  paradise  afaV, 
Thy  music  wanders,  distant,  lost — 

Where  Nature  lights  her  leading  star, 
And  love  is  never,  never  crossed. 

Oh,  gentle  gale  of  Eden  bowers, 
If  back  thy  rosy  feet  should  roam, 

To  revel  with  the  cloudless  Hours 
In  Nature's  more  propitious  home, 

Name  to  thy  loved  Elysian  groves, 

That  o'er  enchanted  spirits  twine, 
A  fairer  form  than  Cherub  loves, 

And  let  the  name  be  CAROLINE. 

1795. 


lf8-  CAROLINE. 


CAROLINE. 


TART    II. 

TO   THE   EVENING    STAR. 

<  -> 

GEM  of  the  crimson-colored  Even, 

Companion  of  retiring1  day, 
Why  at  the  closing  gates  of  Heaven, 

Beloved  star,  dost  thou  delay  ? 

So  fair  thy  pensile  beauty  burns, 

When  s.oft  the  tear  of  twilight  flows  j 

So  due  thy  plighted  love  returns, 
To  chambers  brighter  than  the  rose : 

To  Peace,  to  Pleasure,  and  to  Love, 
So  kind  a  star  thou  seem'st  to  be, 

Sure  some  enamored  orb  above 

Descends  and  burns  to  meet  with  thee. 

Thine  is  the  breathing,  blushing  horn-, 
When  all  unheavenly  passions  fly, 

Chased  by  the  soul-subduing  power 
Of  Love's  delicious  witchery. 

0  !  sacred  to  the  fall  of  day, 

Queen  of  propitious  stars,  appear, 

And  early  rise,  and  long  delay, 
When  Caroline  herself  is  here  ! 

Shine  on.  her  chosen  green  resort, 

Whose  trees  the  sunward  summit  crown 

And  wanton  flowers,  that  well  may  court 
An  angel's  feet  to  tread  them.  down. 


CAROLINE.  177 

Shine  on  her  sweetly-scented  road, 
Thou  star  of  evening's  purple  dome, 

That  lead'st  the  nightingale  abroad, 
And  guid'st  the  pilgrim  to  his  home. 

Shine  where  my  charmer's  sweeter  breath 

Embalms  the  soft  exhaling  dew, 
Where  dying  -winds  a  sigh  bequeath, 

To  kiss  the  cheek  of  rosy  hue. 

Where  winnowed  by  the  gentle  air, 

Her  silken  tresses  darkly  flow, 
And  fall  upon  her  brow  so  fair, 

Like  shadows  on  the  mountain  snow. 

Thus,  ever  thus,  at  day's  decline, 

In  converse  sweet,  to  wander  for, 
O  bring  with  thee  my  Caroline, 
.    And  thou  shalt  be  my  Ruling  Star ! 

17%. 
H* 


178  THE  BEECH  TREE'S  PETITION. 


THE  BEECH  TREE'S  PETITION. 

O  LEAVE  this  barren  spot  to  me  ! 
Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree  ! 
Though  bush  or  floweret  never  grow 
My  dark  un warming  shade  below ; 
Nor  summer  bud  perfume  the  dew 
Of  rosy  blush,  or  yellow  hue ! 
Nor  fruits  of  autumn,  blossom-born, 
My  green  and  glossy  leaves  adorn ; 
Nor  murmuring  tribes  from  me  derive 
Th'  ambrosial  amber  of  the  hive ; 
Yet  leave  this  barren  spot  to  me : 
Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree ! 

Thrice  twenty  summers  I  have  seen 
The  sky  grow  bright,  the  forest  green  j 
And  many  a  wintry  wind  have  stood 
In  bloomless,  fruitless  solitude, 
Since  childhood  in  my  pleasant  bower 
First  spent  its  sweet  and  sportive  hour; 
Since  youthful  lovers  in  my  shade 
Their  vows  of  truth  and  rapture  made ; 
And  on  my  trunk's  surviving  frame 
Carved  many  a  long-forgotten  name. 
Oh  !  by  the  sighs  of  gentle  sound, 
First  breathed  upon  this  sacred  grounc 
By  all  that  Love  has  whispered  here, 
Or  beauty  heard  with  ravished  ear ; 
As  Love's  own  altar  honor  me : 
Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree ! 


FIELD  FLOWERS.  179 


FIELD  FLOWERS. 

YE  field  flowers  !  the  gardens  eclipse  you,  't  is  true, 
Yet  wildings  ot  Nature,  I  dote  upon  you, 

For  ye  waft  me  to  summers  of  old, 
When    the   earth    teemed    around    me   with    fairy 

delight^ 
And  when  daisies  and  buttercups*gladdened  my  sight, 

Like  treasures  of  silver  and  gold. 

I  love  you  for  lulling  me  back  into  dreams 

Of   the   blue    Highland    mountains    and    echoing 

streams, 

And  of  birchen  glades  breathing  their  balm. 
While    the    deer  was    seen   glancing  in   sunshine 

remote, 

And  the  deep  mellow  crush  of  the  wood-pigeon's  note 
Made  music  that  sweetened  the  calm. 

Not  a  pastoral  song  has  a  pleasanter  tune 

Than  ye  speak  to  my  heart,  little  wildings  of  June : 

Of  old  ruinous  castles  ye  tell, 

Where  I  thought  it  delightful  your  beauties  to  find, 
When  the  magic  of  nature  first  breathed  on  my  mind, 

And  your  blossoms  were  part  of  her  spell. 

Even  now  what  affections  the  violet  awakes  j 
What  loved  little  islands,  twice  seen  in  their  lakes, 

Can  the  wild  water-lily  restore ; 
What  landscapes  I  read  in  the  primrose's  looks, 
And  what  pictures  of  pebbled  and  minnowy  brooks, 

In  the  vetches  that  tangled  their  shore. 

Earth's  cultureless  buds,  to  my  heart  ye  were  dear, 
Ere  the  fever  of  passion,  or  ague  of  fear, 

Had  scathed  my  existence's  bloom ; 
Once  I  welcome  you  more,  in  life's  passionless  stage, 
With  the  visions  of  youth  to  revisit  my  age, 

And  I  wish  you  to  grow  on  my  tomb. 


180  STANZAS  TO  PAINTING. 

SONG. 

TO   THE   EVENING   STAE. 

STAB  that  bringest  home  the  bee, 
And  sett'st  the  weary  laborer  free ! 
If  any  star  shed  peace,  't  is  thou, 

That  send'st  it  from  above, 
Appearing  when  Heaven's  breath  and  brow 

Are  sweet  as  hers  we  love. 

Come  to  the  luxuriant  skies, 
Whilst  the  landscape's  odors  rise, 
Whilst  far-off  lowing  herds  are  heard, 

And  songs  when  tell  is  done, 
From  cottages  whose  smoke  unstirred 

Curls  yellow  in  the  sun. 

Star  of  love's  soft  interviews, 
Parted  lovers  on  the  muse ; 
Their  remembrancer  in  Heaven 

Of  thrilling  vows  thou  art 
Too  delicious  to  be  riven 

Bv  absence  from  the  heart. 


STANZAS  TO  PAINTING. 

0  THOU  by  whose  expressive  art 
Her  perfect  image  Nature  sees 

In  union  with  the  Graces  start, 
And  sweeter  by  reflection  please  ! 

In  whose  creative  hand  the  hues 

Fresh  from  yon  orient  rainbow  shine ; 

1  bless  thee,  Promethean  muse  ! 

And  call  thee  brightest  of  the  Nine  ! 


STANZAS  TO  PAINTIN;  .  181 

Possessing  more  than  vocal  power,, 
Persuasive  more  than  poet's  tongue  ; 

Whose  lineage,  in  a  raptured  hour, 

From  Love,  the  Sire  of  Nature,  sprung1 ; 

Does  Hope  her  high  possession  meet  ? 

Is  joy  triumphant,  sorrow  flown  ? 
Sweet  is  the  trance,  the  tremor  sweet 

When  all  we  love  is  all  our  own. 

But  oh  !  thou  pulse  of  pleasure  dear, 
Slow  throbbing,  cold,  I  feel  thee  part ; 

Lone  absence  plants  a  pang  severe, 
Or  death  inflicts  a  keener  dart. 

Then  for  a  beam  of  joy  to  light- 
In  memory's  sad  and  wakeful  eye  ! 

Or  banish  from  the  noon  of  night 
Her  dreams  of  deeper  agony. 

Shall  Song  its  witching  cadence  roll? 

Yea,  even  the  tenderest  air  repeat, 
That  breathed  when  soul  was  knit  to  soul, 

And  heart  to  heart  responsive  beat  ? 

What  visions  rise  !  to  charm,  to  melt ! 

The  lost,  the  loved,  the  dead  are  near ! 
Oh,  hush  that  strain  too  deeply  felt ! 

And  cease  that  solace  too  severe ! 

But  thou,  serenely  silent  art ! 

By  heaven  and  love  wast  taught  to  lend 
A  milder  solace  to  the  heart, 

The  sacred  image  of  a  friend. 

All  is  not  lost !  if,  yet  possest, 

To  me  that  sweet  memorial  shine  :— 

If  close  and  closer  to  my  breast 
I  hold  that  idol  all  divine. 


182  THE  MAID'S  REMONSTRANCE. 

Or,  gazing  through  luxurious  tears, 
Melt  o'er  the  loved  departed  form, 

Till  death's  cold  bosom  half  appears 
With  life,  and  speech,  and  spirit  warm. 

She  looks  !  she  lives  !  this  tranced  hour, 
Her  bright  eye  seems  a  purer  gem 

Than  sparkles  on  the  throne  of  power, 
Or  glory's  wealthy  diadem. 

Yes,  Genius,  yes  !  thy  mimic  aid 
A  treasure  to  my  soul  has  given, 

Where  beauty's  canonized  shade 

Smiles  in  the  sainted  hues  of  heaven. 

No  spectre  forms  of  pleasure  fled, 

Thy  softening,  sweetening,  tints  restore, 

For  thou  canst  give  us  back  the  dead, 
E'en  in  the  loveliest  looks  they  wore. 

Then  blest  be  Nature's  guardian  Muse, 
Whose  hand  her  perished  grace  redeems 

Whose  tablet  of  a  thousand  hues 
The  mirror  of  creation  seems. 

From  Love  began  thy  high  descent ; 

And  lovers,  charmed  by  gifts  of  thine, 
Shall  bless  thee  mutely  eloquent ; 

And  call  thee  brightest  of  the  Nine  ! 


THE  MAID'S  REMONSTRANCE. 

NEVER  wedding,  ever  wooing, 
Still  a  love-lorn  heart  pursuing, 
Read  you  not  the  wrong  you  're  doing 

In  my  cheek's  pale  hue  ? 
All  my  life  with  sorrow  strewing 

Wed,  or  cease  to  woo. 


ABSENCE.  183 

Rivals  banished,  bosoms  plighted, 
Still  our  days  are  disunited ; 
Now  the  lamp  of  hope  is  lighted, 

Now  half-quenched  appears, 
Damped,  and  wavering,  and  benighted, 

'Midst  my  sighs  and  tears. 

Charms  you  call  your  dearest  blessing, 
Lips  that  thrill  at  your  caressing, 
Eyes  a  mutual  soul  confessing, 

Soon  you  '11  make  them  grow 
Dim,  and  worthless  your  possessing, 

Not  with  age,  but  woe ! 


ABSENCE. 

T  is  not  the  loss  of  love's  assurance, 

It  is  not  doubting  what  thou  art, 
But 't  is  the  too,  too  long  endurance 

Of  absence,  that  afflicts  my  heart. 

The  fondest  thoughts  two  hearts  can  cherish, 
When  each  is  lonely  doomed  to  weep, 

Are  fruits  on  desert  isles  that  perish, 
Or  riches  buried  in  the  deep. 

What  though,  untouched  by  jealous  madness, 
Our  bosom's  peace  may  fall  to  wreck  ; 

Th'  undoubting  heart,  that  breaks  with  sadness 
Is  but  more  slowly  doomed  to  break. 

Absence  !  is  not  the  soul  torn  by  it 

From  more  than  light,  or  life,  or  breath  ? 

JT  is  Lethe's  gloom,  but  not  its  quiet, 
The  pain  without  the  peace  of  death  ! 


184  LINES. 


LINES 

INSCRIBED  ON  THE  MONUMENT   LATELY  FINISHED  BY 
MR.  CHANTREY, 

Which   has   been  erected   by  the  Widow  of  Admiral  Sir  G. 
Campbell,  K.  C.  B.,  to  the  memory  of  her  Husband. 

To  him,  whose  loyal,  brave,  and  gentle  heart, 
Fulfilled  the  hero's  and  the  patriot's  part, — 
Whose  charity,  like  that  which  Paul  enjoined, 
Was  warm,  beneficent,  and  unconfined, — 
This  stone  is  reared  :  to  public  duty  true, 
The  seaman's  friend,  the  father  of  his  crew — 
Mild  in  reproof,  sagacious  in  command, 
He  spread  fraternal  zeal  throughout  his  band, 
And  led  each  arm  to  act,  each  heart  to  feel, 
What  British  valor  owes  to  Britain's  weal. 
These  wore  his  public  virtues : — but  to  trace 
His  private  life's  fair  purity  and  grace, 
To  paint  the  traits  that  drew  affection  strong 
From  friends,  an  ample  and  an  ardent  throng, 
And,  more,  to  speak  his  memory's  grateful  claim, 
On  her  who  mourns  him  most,  and  bears  his  name-— 
( )'ercomes  the  trembling  hand  of  widowed  grief, 
O'ercomes  the  heart,  unconscious  of  relief, 
Save  in  religion's  high  and  holy  trust, 
Whilst  placing  their  memorial  o'er  his  dust. 


STANZAS.  185 


STANZAS 

O5T  THE   BATTLE   OF  NAVARINO. 

HEARTS  of  oak  that  have   bravely  delivered   the 

,  brave, 

And  uplifted  old  Greece  from  the  brink  of  the  grave, 
7T  was  the  helpless  to  help,  and  the  hopeless  to  save, 

That  your  thunderbolts  swept  o'er  the  brine : 
And  as  long  as  yon  sun  shall  look  down  on  the  wave, 

The  light  of  your  glory  shall  shine. 

For  the  guerdon  ye  sought  with  you*  bloodshed  n:i<l 

toil, 

^Vas  it  slaves,  or  dominion,  or  rapine,  or  spoil  ? 
1  No  !  your  lofty  emprise  was  to  fetter  and  foil 

The  uprooter  of  Greece's  domain  ! 
"When  he  tore  the  last  remnant  of  food  from  her  soil, 
Till  her  famished  sank  pale  as  the  slain  ! 

Yet,  Navarin's  heroes !  does  Christendom  breed 
The  base  hearts  that  will  question  the  fame  of  your 

deed? 
Are  they  men  ? — let  ineffable  scorn  be  their  meed, 

And  oblivion  shadow  then:  graves ! — 
Are  they  women? — to   Turkish    serails   let    them 

speed ; 
And  be  mothers  of  Mussulman  slaves. 

Abettors  of  massacre !  dare  ye  deplore 
/.That  the  death-shriek  is  silenced  on  Hellas's  shore  t 
That  the  mother  aghast  sees  her  offspring  no  more  r»; 

By  the  hand  of  Infanticide  grasped ! 
And  that  stretched  on  yon  billows  distained  by  their 

gore 
Missolonghi's  assassins  have  gasped  ? 


186:  LINES. 

Prouder  scene  never  hallowed  war's    pomp   to     the 

mind, 
Than  when  Christendom's  pennons  wooed  social  the 

wind, 
And  the  flower  of  her  brave  for  the  combat  combined, 

Their  watch- word,  humanity's  vow  : 
Not  a  sea-boy  that  fought  in  that  cause,  but  mankind 
Owes  a  garland  to  honor  his  brow  ! 

Nor  grudge,  by  our  side,  that  to  conquer  or  fall 
Came  the    hardy  rude   Russ,  and  the   high-mettled 

Gaul: 
For  whose  was  the  genius,  that  planned  at  its  call, 

Where  the  whirlwind  of  battle  should  roll? 
All  were  brave !  but  the  star  of  success  over  all 

Was  the  light  of  our  Codrington's  soul. 

That  star  of  thy  day-spring,  regenerate  Greek  ! 
Dimmed  the  Saracen's  moon,  and  struck  pallid  his 

cheek ! 
In  its  fast  flushing  morning  thy  Muses  shall  speak 

When  their  lore  and  their  lutes  they  reclaim  : 
And  the  first  of  their  songs  from  Parnassus's  peak 
Shall  be  "Glory  to  Codrington's  name  !n 

1888, 


LINES 

ON  REVISITING  A  SCOTTISH   RIVEK. 

AXD  call  they  this  Improvement ! — to  have  changed, 
My  native  Clyde,  thy  once  romantic  shore, 
Where  Nature's  face  is  banished  and  estranged, 
And  heaven  reflected  in  thy  wave  no  more ; 
Whose    banks,    that    sweetened    31  ay-day's    breath 
before, 


LINES;  187 

Lie  sere  and  leafless  now  in  summer's  beam, 
With  sooty  exhalations  covered  o'er ; 
And  for  the  daisied  green-sward,  down  thy  stream 
Unsightly  brick  lanes  smoke,  and  clanking  engines 
gleam. 

Speak  not  to  me  of  swarms  the  scene  sustains ; 
One  heart  free  tasting  Nature's  breath  and  bloom 
Is  worth  a  thousand  slaves  to  Mammon's  gains. 
But  whither  goes  that  wealth,  and  gladdening  whom  ? 
See,  left  but  life  enough  and  breathing-room 
The  hunger  and  the  hope  of  life  to  feel, 
Yon  pale  Mechanic  bending  o'er  his  loom, 
And  Childhood's  self  as  at  Ixion's  wheel, 
From  morn  till  midnight   tasked  to   earn  its  littL- 
meal. 

Is  this  Improvement  ? — where  the  human  breed 
Degenerate  as  they  swarm  and  overflow, 
Till  Toil  grows  cheaper  than  the  trodden  weed, 
And  man  competes  with  man,  like  foe  with  foe, 
Till  Death,  that  thins  them,  scarce  seems  public  woe  ? 
Improvement ! — smiles  it  in  the  poor  man's  eyes, 
Or  blooms  it  on  the  cheek  of  Labor  ? — No — 
To  gorge  a  few  with  Trade's  precarious  prize, 
We  banish '  rural    life,   and    breathe    unwholesome 
skies. . 

Nor  call  that  evil  slight ;  God  has  not  given 

This  passion  to  the  heart  of  man  in  vain, 

For  Earth's  green  face,  th'  untainted  air  of  Heaven, 

And  all  the  bliss  of  Nature's  rustic  reign. 

For  not  alone  our  frame  imbibes  a  stain 

Erom  fetid  skies ;  the  spirit's  healthy  pride 

Fades  in  their  gloom — And  therefore  I  complain, 

That  thou  no  more  through  pastoral  scenes  shouldst 

glide, 

My  Wallace's  own  stream,  and  once  romantic  Clyde ! 

1827*. 


188  THE  "NAME  UNKNOWN." 

THE  "NAME  UNKNOWN."* 

IN   IMITATION    OF   KLOPSTOCK. 

PROPHETIC  pencil !  wilt  thou  trace 
A  faithful  image  of  the  face, 

Or  wilt  thou  write  the  "  Name  Unknown," 
Ordained  to  bless  my  charmed  soul, 
And  all  my  future  fate  control, 

Unrivalled  and  alone  ? 

Delicious  Idol  of  my  thought ! 
Though  sylph  or  spirit  hath  not  taught 

My  boding  heart  thy  precious  name  j 
Yet  musing  on  my  distant  fate, 
To  charms  unseen  I  consecrate 

A  visionary  flame. 

Thy  rosy  blush,  thy  meaning  eye, 
Thy  virgin  voice  of  melody, 

Are  ever  present  to  my  heart  ; 
Thy  murmured  vows  shall  }'et  be  mine, 
My  thrilling  hand  shall  meet  with  thine, 

And  never,  never  part.  ' 

Then  fly,  my  days,  on  rapid  wing 
Till  Love  the  viewless  treasure  bring 

While  I,  like  conscious  Athens,  owr 
A  power  in  mystic  silence  sealed, 
A  guardian  angel  unrevealed, 

And  bless  the  "  Name  Unknown  !" 

*  These  lines  were  written  in  Germany. 


FAREWELL  TO  LOVE. 


FAREWELL  TO  LOVE. 

I  HAD  a  heart  that  doted  once  in  passion's  boundless 

pain, 
And  though  the  tyrant  I  abjured,  I  could  not  break 

his  chain ; 
But  now  that  Fancy's  fire  is  quenched,  and  ne'er  can 

burn  anew, 
I  've   bid   to   Love,  for   all   my   life,  adieu !     adieu ! 

adieu ! 

IVc  known,  if  ever  mortal  knew,  the  spells  of  Beauty's 

thrall, 
And  if  my  song  has  told  them  not,  my  soul  has  felt 

them  all ; 
But  Passion  robs  my  peace  no  more,  and    Beauty's 

witching  sway 
Is  now  to  roe  a  star  that's  fall'n — a  dream  that's  passed 

away. 

Hail !  welcome  tide  of  life,  when  no  tumultuous  billows 

roll, 
How  wondrous  to  myself  appears  this  halcyon  calm  of 

soul ! 
The  wearied  bird  blown  o'er  the  deep  would   sooner 

quit  its  shore, 
Than  I  would  cross  the  gulf  again  that  time  has  brought 

me  o'er. 

Why  say  they  Angels  feel  the  flame? — Oh,  spirits  of 

the  skies ! 
Can  love  like  ours,  that  dotes  on  dust,  in  heavenly 

bosoms  rise? — 
Ah  no!    the  hearts  that  best  have  felt  its  power,  the 

best  can  tell, 
That  peace  on  earth  itself  begins,  when  Love  has  bid 

farewell. 

1630. 


190  LINES. 

LINES 

O2T  THE    CAMP   HILL,   NEAR    HASTINGS. 

IK  the  deep  blue  of  eve, 
Ere  the  twinkling  of  stars  had  begun, 

Or  the  lark  took  his  leave 
Of  the  skies  and  the  sweet  setting  sun, 

o  7 

I  climbed  to  yon  heights, 
Where  the  Norman  encamped  him  of  old9 

With  his  bowmen  and  knights, 
And  his  banner  all  burnished  with  gold 

At  the  Conqueror's  side 
There  his  minstrelsy  sat  harp  in  hand, 

In  pavilion  wide ; 
And  they  chaunted  the  deeds  of  lloland 

Still  the  ramparted  ground 
With  a  vision  my  fancy  inspires, 

And  I  hear  the  trump  sound, 
As  it  marshalled  our  Chivalry's  sires. 

On  each  turf  of  that  mead 
Stood  the  captors  of  England's  domains, 

That  ennobled  her  breed 
And  high-mettled  the  blood  of  her  veins. 

Over  hauberk  and  helm 
As  the  sun's  setting  splendor  was  thrown, 

Thence  they  looked  o'er  a  realm — 
And  to-morrow  beheld  it  their  own. 


LINES  ON  POLAND.  101 


LINES  ON  POLAND. 

AND  have  I  lived  to  see  thee  sword  in  hand 
Uprise  again,  immortal  Polish  Land ! — 
Whose  flag  brings  more  than  chivalry  to  mind, 
And  leaves  the  tri-color  in  shade  behind ; 
A  theme  for  uninspired  lips  too  strong  ; 
That  swells  my  heart  beyond  the  power  of  song  :— 
Majestic  men,  whose  deeds  have  dazzled  faith, 
Ah !  yet  your  fate's  suspense  arrests  my  breath  : 
Whilst  envying  bosoms,  bare  to  shot  and  steel, 
I  feel  the  more  that  fruitlessly  I  feel. 

Poles  !  with  what  indignation  I  endure 
Th'  half-pitying  servile  mouths  that  call  you  poor ; 
Poor  !  is  it  England  mocks  you  with  her  grief, 
Who  hates,  but  dares  not  chide,  th'  Imperial  Thief? 
France  with  her  soul  beneath  a  Bourbon's  thrall, 
And  Germany  thfft~has  no  soul  at  all, — 
States,  quailing  at  the  giant  overgrown, 
Whom  dauntless  Poland  grapples  with  alone  ! 
No,  ye  are  rich  in  fame  e'en  whilst  ye  bleed  : 
We  cannot  aid  you — we  are  poor  indeed ! 
In  Fate's  defiance — in  the  world's  great  eye, 
Poland  has  won  her  immortality ; 
The  Butcher,  should  he  reach  her  bosom  now, 
Could  not  tear  Glory's  garland  from  her  brow ; 
Wreathed,  filleted,  the  victim  falls  renowned, 
And  all  her  ashes  will  be  holy  ground ! 

But  turn,  my  soul,  from  presages  so  'dark  : 

Great  Poland's  spirit  is  a  deathless  spark 

That's  fanned  by   Heaven  to  mock  the   Tyrant's 

rage: 

She,  like  the  eagle,  will  renew  her  age, 
And  fresh  historic  plumes  of  Fame  put  on, — 
Another  Athens  after  Marathon, — 


192  LINES  ON  POLAND. 

Where  eloquence  shall  fulmine,  arts  refine, 

Bright  as  her  arms  that  now  in  battle  shine. 

Come — should  the  heavenly  shock  my  life  destroy, 

And  shut  its  flood-gates  with  excess  of  joy ; 

Conic  but  the  day  when  Poland's  fight  is  won — 

And  on  my  grave-stone  shine  the  morrow's  son — 

The  day  that  sees  Warsaw's  cathedral  glow 

With  endless  ensigns  ravished  from  the  foe, — 

Her  women  lifting  their  fair  hands  with  thanks, 

Her  pious  warriors  kneeling  in  their  ranks, 

The  'scutcheoned  walls  of  high  heraldic  boast. 

The  odorous  altars'  elevated  host, 

The     organ     sounding     through     the     aisles'     long 

glooms, 

The  mighty  dead  seen  sculptured  o'er  their  tombs  j 
(John,  Europe's  saviour — Poniatowski's  fair 
Resemblance — Kosciusko's  shall  be  there;) 
The  tapered  pomp — the  hallelujah's  swell, 
Shall  o'er  the  soul's  devotion  cast  a  spell, 
Till  visions  cross  the  rapt  enthusiast's  glance, 
And  all  the  scene  becomes  a  waking  trance. 
Should  Fate  put  far — far  off  that  glorious  scene, 
And  gulfs  of  havoc  interpose  between, 
Imagine  not,  ye  men  of  every  clime, 
Who  act,  or  by  your  sufferance  share,  the  crime — 
Your  brother  Abel's  blood  shall  vainly  plead 
Against  the  "  deep  damnation"  of  the  deed. 
Germans,  ye  view  its  horror  and  disgrace 
With  cold  phosphoric  eyes  and  phlegm  of  face. 
Is  Allemagne  profound  in  science,  lore, 
Anil  minstrel  art! — her  shame  is  but  the  more 
To  Jo/e  and  dream  by  governments  oppressed, 
The  spirit  of  a  book-worm  in  each  breast. 
Well  can  ye  mouth  fair  Freedom's  classic  line, 
And  talk  of  Constitutions  o'er  your  wine : 
But  all  your  vows  to  break  the  tyrant's  yoke 
Expire  in  Bacchanalian  song  and  smoke : 
Heavens  !  can  no  ray  of  foresight  pierce  the  leads 
Ai.d  mystic  metaphysics  of  your  heads, 


LINES  ON  POLAND.  11» 

To  sliow  the  self-same  grave  Oppression  delves 

For  Poland's  rights  is  yawning  for  yourselves '? 

See,  whilst  the  Pole,  the  vanguard  aid  of  France, 

Has  vaulted  on  his  barb,  and  couched  the  lance, 

France  turns  from  her  abandoned  friends  afresh, 

And  soothes  the  Bear  that  prowls  for  patriot  flesh  ; 

Buys,  ignominious  purchase !  short  repose. 

With  dying  curses,  and  the  groans  of  those 

That  served,  and  loved,  and  put  in  her  their  trust. 

Frenchmen !  the  dead  accuse  you  from  the  dust — 

Brows  laurelled — bosoms  marked  with  many  a  scar 

For  France — that  wore  her  Legion's  noblest  star, 

Cast  dumb  reproaches  from  the  field  of  Death 

On  Gallic  honor :   and  this  broken  faith 

Has  robbed  you  more  of  Fame — the  life  of  life — 

Than  twenty  battles  lost  in  glorious  strife ! 

And  what  of  England — is  she  steeped  so  low 

In  poverty,  crest-fallen,  and  palsied  so, 

That  we  must  sit  much  wroth,  but  timorous  more, 

With  murder  knocking  at  our  neighbor's  door ! — 

Not  murder  masked  and  cloaked,  with  hidden  knife, 

Whose  owner  owes  the  gallows  life  for  life ; 

But  Public  Murder  ! — that  with  pomp  and  gaud, 

And  royal  scorn  of  Justice,  walks  abroad 

To  wring  more  tears  and  blood  than  e'er  were  wrung 

By  all  the  culprits  Justice  ever  hung ! 

We  read  the  diademed  Assassin's  vaunt, 

And  wince,  and  wish  we  had  not  hearts  to  pant 

With  useless  indignation — sigh,  and  frown, 

But  have  not  hearts  to  throw  the  gauntlet  down. 

If  but  a  doubt  hung  o'er  the  grounds  of  fray, 

Or  trivial  rapine  stopped  the  world's  highway ; 

Were  this  some  common  strife  of  States  embroiled ; — 

Britannia  on  the  spoiler  and  the  spoiled 

Might  calmly  look,  and,  asking  time  to  breathe, 

Still  honorably  wear  her  olive  wreath. 

But  this  is  Darkness  combating  with  Light ; 

Earth's  adverse  Principles  for  empire  fight ; 


'4  LINES  OX  POLAND. 

Oppression,  that  has  belted  half  the  globe, 
Far  as  his  knout  could  reach  or  dagger  probe, 
Holds  reeking  o'er  our  brother-freemen  slain 
That  dagger — shakes  it  at  us  in  disdain : 
Talks  big  to  Freedpm's  states  of  Poland's  thrall, 
And,  trampling  one,  contemns  them  one  and  all. 

My  country  !  colors  not  thy  once  proud  brow 

At  this  affront  ? — Hast  thou  not  fleets  enow 

\Yith  Glory's  streamer,  lofty  as  the  lark, 

Gay  fluttering  o'er  each  plunder-bearing  bark, 

To  warm  the  insulter's  seas  with  barbarous  blood, 

And  interdict  his  flag  from  Ocean's  flood  I 

Even  now  far  off  the  sea-cliff,  where  I  sing, 

I  see,  my  Country  and  my  Patriot  King ! 

Your  ensign  glad  the  deep.    Becalmed  and  slow 

A  war-ship  rides  ;  while  Heaven's  prismatic  bow 

Uprisen  behind  her  on  th'  horizon's  base, 

Shines  flushing  through  the  tackle,  shrouds,  and 

stays, 

And  wraps  her  giant  form  in  one  majestic  blaze. 
My  soul  accepts  the  omen ;  Fancy's  eye 
Has  sometimes  a  veracious  augury : 
The  Rainbow  types  Heaven's  promise  to  my  sight  j 
The  Ship,  Britannia's  interposing  Might ! 
But  if  there  should  be  none  to  aid  you,  Poles, 
Ye  '11  but  to  prouder  pitch  wind  up  your  souls 
Above  example,  pity,  praise,  or  blame, 
To  sow  and  reap  a  boundless  field  of  Fame. 
Ask  aid  no  more  from  Nations  that  forget 
Your  championship — old  Europe's  mighty  debt. 
Though  Poland,  Lazarus-like  has  burst  the  gloom, 
She  rises  not  a  beggar  from  the  tomb : 
In  Fortune's  frown,  on  Danger's  giddiest  brink, 
Despair  and  Poland's  name  must  never  link, 
All  ills  have  bounds — plague,  whirlwind,  fire,  and 

flood: 
Even  Power  can  spill  but  bounded  sums  of  blood. 


LINES  ON  POLAND. 

States  caring  not  what  Freedom's  price  may  be, 
May  late  or  soon,  but  must  at  last  be  free ; 
For  body-killing  tyrants  cannot  kill 
The  public  soul — the  hereditary  will 
That  downward,  as  from  sire  to  son  it  goe^, 
By  shifting  bosoms  more  intensely  glo\v> : 
Its  heirloom  is  the  heart,  and  slaughtered  men 
Fight  fiercer  in  their  orphans  o'er  again. 
Poland  recasts — though  rich  in  heroes  old — 
Her  men  in  more  and  more  heroic  mould ; 
Her  eagle  ensign  best  among  mankind 
Becomes,  and  types  her  eagle-strength  of  m::id : 
Her  praise  upon  my  faltering' lips  expires; 
Resume  it,  younger  bards,  and  nobler  lyres! 


11)0  A  NEW  YEAR'S  THOUGHT. 


A  THOUGHT  SUGGESTED  BY  THE 
NEW  YEAR. 

THE  more  we  live,  more  brief  appear 

Our  life's  succeeding  stages ; 
A  day  to  childhood  seems  a  year, 

And  years  like  passing  ages. 

The  gladsome  current  of  our  youth, 

Ere  passion  yet  disorders, 
Steals,  lingering  like  a  river  smooth 

Along  its  grassy  borders. 

But,  as  the  care-worn  cheek  grows  wan, 
And  sorrow's  shafts  fly  thicker, 

Ye  stars,  that  measure  life  to  man, 
Why  seem  your  courses  quicker  ? 

When  joys  have  lost  their  bloom  and  breath, 

And  life  itself  is  vapid, 
Why,  as  we  reach  the  Falls  of  death, 

Feel  we  its  tide  more  rapid  ? 

It  may  be  strange — yet  who  would  change 
Time's  course  to  slower  speeding ; 

When  one  by  one  our  friends  have  gone, 
And  left  our  bosoms  bleeding  ? 

Heaven  gives  our  years  of  fading  strength 

Indemnifying  fleetness ; 
And  those  of  Youth,  a  seeming  length, 

Proportioned  to  their  sweetness. 


SONG.  ID; 


SONG. 

How  delicious  is  the  winning1 
Of  a  kiss  at  Love's  beginning, 
When  two  mutual  hearts  are  sighing1 
For  the  knot  there  's  no  untying ! 

Yet,  remember  'midst  your  wooing, 
Love  has  bliss,  but  Love  has  ruing; 
Other  smiles  may  make  you  fickle, 
Tears  for  other  charms  may  trickle. 

Love  he  comes,  and  Love  he  tarries. 
Just  as  fate  or  fancy  carries ; 
Longest  stays,  when  sorest  chidden; 
Laughs  and  flies,  when  pressed  and  bidden. 

Bind  the  sea  to  slumber  stilly, 
Bind  its  odor  to  the  lily, 
Bind  the  aspen  ne'er  to  quiver, 
Then  bind  Love  to  last  forever ! 

Love  's  a  fire  that  needs  renewal 

Of  fresh  beauty  for  its  fuel ; 

Love's  wing  moults  when  caged  and  captured, 

Only  free,  he  soars  enraptured. 

Can  you  keep  the  bee  from  ranging, 
Or  the  ringdove's  neck  from  changing  ? 
No  !  nor  fettered  Love  from  dying 
In  the  knot  there's  no  untying. 


198  THE  POWER  OF  RUSSIA. 


MARGARET  AND  DORA. 

MARGARET'S  beauteous — Grecian  arts 
Ne'er  drew  form  completer, 
Yet  why,  in  my  heart  of  hearts, 
Hold  I  Dora's  sweeter? 

Dora's  eyes  of  heavenly  blue 
Pass  all  painting's  reach, 
Ringdoves'  notes  are  discord  to 
The  music  of  her  speech. 

Artists  !  Margaret's  smile  receive, 
And  on  canvas  show  it ; 
But  for  perfect  worship  leave 
Dora  to  her  poet. 


THE  POWER  OF  RUSSIA. 

So  all  this  gallant  blood  has  gushed  in  vain  ! 
And  Poland,  by  the  Northern  Condor's  beak 
And  talons  torn,  lies  prostrated  again. 
O  British  patriots,  that  were  wont  to  speak 
Once  loudly  on  thjs  theme,  now  hushed  or  meek  ! 
O  heartless  men  of  Europe — Goth  and  Gaul, 
Cold,  adder-deaf  to  Poland's  dying  shriek ; — 
That  saw  the  world's  last  land  of  heroes  fall — 
The  brand  of  burning  shame  is  on  you  all — all- 
all! 

But  this  is  not  the  drama's  closing  act ! 

Its  tragic  curtain  must  uprise  anew. 

Nations,  mute  accessories  to  the  fact ! 

That  Upas-lvee  of  power,  whose  fostering  dew 


THE  POWER  OF  RUSSIA.  199 

Was  Polish  blood,  has  yet  to  cast  o'er  you 
The  lengthening  shadow  of  its  head  elate — 
A  deadly  shadow,  darkening  Nature's  hue. 
To  all  that's  hallowed,  righteous,  pure,  and  great, 
Wo  !  wo  !  when  they  are  reached  by  Russia's  wither- 
ing hate. 

ussia,  that  on  his  throne  of  adamant, 
Consults  what  nation's  breast  shall  next  be  gored, 
He  on  Polonia's  Golgotha  will  plant 
His  standard  fresh  ;  and  horde  succeeding  horde, 
On  patriot  tomb-stones  he  will  whet  the  sword, 
For  more  stupendous  slaughters  of  the  free. 
Then  Europe's  realms,  when  their  best  blood  is 

poured, 

Shall  miss  thee,  Poland !  as  they  bend  the  knee, 
All — all  in  grief,  but  none  in  glory,  likening  thee. 

Why  smote  ye  not  the  Giant  whilst  he  reeled  ? 
O  fair  occasion,  gone  for  ever  by  ! 
To  have  locked  his  lances  in  their  northern  field, 
Innocuous  as  the  phantom  chivalry 
That  flames  and  hurtles  from  yon  boreal  sky  ! 
Now  wave  thy  pennon,  Russia,  o'er  the  land 
Once  Poland ;  build  thy  bristling  castles  high  ; 
Dig  dungeons  deep ;  for  Poland's  wrested  brand 
Is  now  a  weapon  new  to  widen  thy  command — 

An  awful  width !  Norwegian  woods  shall  build 

His  fleets  ;  the  Swede  his  vassal,  and  the  Dane  j 

The  glebe  of  fifty  kingdoms  shall  be  tilled 

To  feed  his  dazzling,  desolating  train, 

Camped    sumless,    7twixt  the    Black    and    Baltic 

main : 

Brute  hosts,  I  own ;  but  Sparta  could  not  write, 
And  Rome,  half-barbarous,  bound  Achaia's  chain  : 
So  Russia's  spirit,  'midst  Sclavonic  night, 
Burns  with  a  fire  more  dread  than  all  your  polished 

light. 


800  THE  POWER  OF  RUSSIA. 

But  Russia's  limbs  (so  blinded  statesmen  speak) 
Are  crude,  and  too  colossal  to  cohere. 
O,  lamentable  weakness  !  reckoning  weak 
The  stripling  Titan,  strengthening  year  by  year. 
What  implement  lacks  he  for  war's  career, 
That  grows  on  earth,  or  in  its  floods  and  mines, 
(Eighth  sharer  of  the  inhabitable  sphere) 
Whom  Persia  bows  to,  China  ill  confines, 
And   India's  homage  waits,  when  Albion's  star  de- 
clines ! 

But  time  will  teach  the   Russ,    even    conquering 

War 

Has  handmaid  arts  :  ay,  ay,  the  Russ  will  woo 
All  sciences  that  speed  Bellona's  car, 
All  murder's  tactic  arts,  and  win  them  too  ; 
But  never  holier  Muses  shall  imbue 
His  breast,  that's  made  of  nature's  basest  clay  : 
The  sabre,  knout,  and  dungeon's  vapor  blue 
His  laws  and  ethics :  far  from  him  away 
Are  all  the  lovely  Nine,  that  breathe  but  Freedom's 

day. 

Say,  even  his  serfs,  half-humanized,  should  learn 
Their    human     rights, — will     Mars    put    out    his 

flame 

In  Russian  bosoms  ?  no,  he'll  bid  them  burn 
A  thousand  years  for  naught  but  martial  fame, 
Like  Romans : — yet  forgive  me,  Roman  name  ! 
Rome  could  impart  what  Russia  never  can  ; 
Proud  civic  rights  to  salve  submission's  shame, 
Our  strife  is  coming  ;  but  in  freedom's  van 
The  Polish  eagle's  fall  is  big  with  fate  to  man. 

Proud  bird  of  old !  Mohammed's  moon  recoiled 

Before  thy  swoop  :  had  we  been  timely  bold, 

That  swoop,  still  free,  had  stunned  the  Russ,  and 

foiled 
Earth's  new  oppressors,  as  it  foiled  her  old. 


THE  POWER  OF  RUSSIA.  2(U 

Now  thy  majestic  eyes  are  shut  and  cold  : 

And  colder  still  Polonia's  children  find 

The  sympathetic  hands  that  we  onthold. 

But,   Poles,   when  we   are  gone,   the    world    will 

mind, 
Ye   bore  the   brant   of   fate,    and   bled   for    human. 

kind. 

So  hallowedly  have  ye  fulfilled  your  part, 

My  pride  repudiates  even  the  sigh  that  blends 

With  Poland's  name — name  written  on  my  heart. 

My  heroes,  my  grief-consecrated  friends  ! 

Your  sorrow,  in  nobility,  transcends 

Your  conqueror's  joy:  his  cheek  may  blush;    I  tut, 

shame 

Can  tinge  not  yours,  though  exile's  tear  descends* ; 
Nor  would  ye  change  your  conscience,  cause,  and 

name, 
Por  his,  with  all  his  wealth,  and  all  his  felon  i'anie. 

Thee,  Niemciewitz,  whose  song  of  stirring  power 
The  Czar  forbids  to  sound  in  Polish  lands  ; 
Thee,  Czartoryski,  in  thy  banished  bower, 
The  patricide,  who  in  thy  palace  stands, 
May  envy  :  proudly  may  Polonia's  bands 
Throw  down  their  swords  at  Europe's  feet  in  scorn, 
Saying — •'  Russia  from  the  metal  of  these  brands 
Shall  forge  the  fetters  of  your  sons  unborn  ; 
Our  setting  star  is  your  misfortune's  rising  morn/" 

S83L 
I* 


202  LINES. 

LINES 

ON   LEAVING   A   SCENE   IN   BAVARIA, 

ADIEU  the  woods  and  waters'  side, 
Imperial  Danube's  rich  domain  ! 

Adieu  the  grotto,  wild  and  wide, 
The  rocks  abrupt  and  grassy  plain ! 
For  pallid  Autumn  once  again 

Hath  swelled  each  torrent  of  the  hill  j 
Her  clouds  collect,  her  shadows  sail, 
And  watery  winds  that  sweep  the  vale 

Grow  loud  and  louder  still. 

But  not  the  storm,  dethroning  fast 
Yon  monarch  oak  of  massy  pile; 

Nor  river  roaring  to  the  blast 
Around  its  dark  and  desert  isle  ; 
Nor  church-bell  tolling  to  beguile 

The  cloud-born  thunder  passing  by, 
Can  sound  in  discord  to  my  soul : 
Roll  on,  ye  mighty  waters,  roll ! 

And  rage,  thou  darkened  sky  ! 

Thy  blossoms  now  no  longer  bright ; 

Thy  withered  woods  no  longer  green ; 
Yet,  Eldurn  shore,  with  dark  delight 

I  visit  thy  unlovely  scene  ! 

For  many  a  sunset  hour  serene 
My  steps  have  trod  thy  mellow  dew  ; 

When  his  green  light  the  glowworm  gav(jj 

When  Cynthia  from  the  distant  wave 
Her  twilight  anchor  drew, 

And  ploughed,  as  with  a  swelling  sail, 
The  billowy  clouds  and  starry  sea  j 

Then  while  thy  hermit  nightingale 
Sang  on  his  fragrant  apple-tree, — 
.Romantic,  solitary,  free, 


LINES.  202 

The  visitant  of  Eldurn's  shore, 

On  such  a  moonlight  mountain  strayed, 
As  echoed  to  the  music  made 

By  Druid  harps  of  yore. 

Around  thy  savage  hills  of  oak, 
Around  thy  waters  bright  and  blue, 

No  hunter's  horn  the  silence  broke, 
No  dying  shriek  thine  echo  knew  j 
But  safe,  sweet  Eldurn  woods,  to  you 

The  wounded  wild  deer  ever  ran, 
x Whose  myrtle  bound  their  grassy  cavcj 
Whose  very  rocks  a  shelter  gave 

From  blood-pursuing  man. 

Oh  heart  effusions,  that  arose 

From  nightly  wanderings  cherished  here ; 
To  him  who  flies  from  many  woes, 

Even  homeless  deserts  can  be  dear ! 

The  last  and  solitary  cheer 
Of  those  that  own  no  earthly  home, 

Say — is  it  not,  ye  banished  race, 

In  such  a  loved  and  lonely  place 
Companionless  to  roam  ? 

Yes !  I  have  loved  thy  wild  abode, 

Unknown,  unploughed,  untrodden  shore* 
Where  scarce  the  woodman  finds  a  road, 

And  scarce  the  fisher  plies  an  oar ; 

For  man's  neglect  I  love  thee  more : 
That  art  nor  avarice  intrude 

To  tame  thy  torrent's  thunder  shock; 

Or  prune  thy  vintage  of  the  rock 
Magnificently  rude. 

Unheeded  spreads  thy  blossomed  bud 

Its  milky  bosom  to  the  bee ; 
Unheeded  falls  along  the  flood 

Thy  desolate  and  aged  tree. 

Forsaken  scene,  how  like  to  thee 


201  LINES. 

The  fate  of  unbefriended  Worth  ! 
Like  thine  her  fruit  dishonored  falls  j 
Like  thee  in  solitude  she  calls 

A  thousand  treasures  forth. 

Oh !  silent  spirit  of  the  place, 

If,  lingering  with  the  mined  year, 

Thy  hoary  form  and  awful  face 

I  yet  might  watch  and  worship  here ! 
Thy  storm  were  music  to  mine  ear, 

Thy  wildest  walk  a  shelter  given 
•Sublimer  thoughts  on  earth  to  find, 
And  share,  with  no  unhallowed  mind, 

The  majesty  of  heaven. 

What  though  the  bosom  friends  of  Fate, — 

Prosperity's  unweaned  brood, — 
Thy  consolations  cannot  rate, 

0  self-dependent  solitude ! 
Yet  with  a  spirit  unsubdued, 

Though  darkened  by  the  clouds  of  Care, 
To  worship  thy  congenial  gloom, 
A  pilgrim  to  the  Prophet's  tomb 

The  Friendless  shall  repair. 

On  him  the  world  hath  never  smiled 
Or  looked  but  with  accusing  eye ; — 

All-silent  goddess  of  the  wild, 

To  thee  that  misanthrope  shall  fly  ! 

1  hear  his  deep  soliloquy, 

I  mark  his  proud  but  ravaged  form, 
As  stern  he  wraps  his'mantle  round. 
And  bids,  on  winter's  bleakest  ground, 

Defiance  to  the  storm. 

Peace  to  his  banished  heart,  at  last, 
In  thy  dominions  shall  descend, 

And,  strong  as  beech  wood  in  the  blast, 
His  spirit  shall  refuse  to  bend  ; 
Enduring  life  without  a  friend, 


LINES.  205 

The  world  and  falsehood  left  behind, 
Thy  votary  shall  bear  elate, 
(Triumphant  o'er  opposing  Fate,) 

His  dark  inspired  mind. 

But  dost  thou,  Folly,  mock  the  Muse 

A  wanderer's  mountain  walk  to  sing, 
Who  shuns  a  warring  world,  nor  \voos 

The  vulture  cover  of  its  wing  ? 

Then  fly,  thou  cowering,  shivering  thing, 
Back  to  the  fostering  world  beguiled, 

To  waste  in  self-consuming  strife 

The  loveless  brotherhood  of  life, 
Reviling  and  reviled ! 

Away,  thou  lover  of  the  race 

That  thither  chased  yon  weeping  deer ! 
If  Nature's  all  majestic  face 

More  pitiless  than  man's  appear ; 

Or,  if  the  wild  winds  seem  more  drear 
Than  man's  cold  charities  below, 

Behold  around  his  peopled  plains, 

Where'er  the  social  savage  reigns, 
Exuberance  of  woe ! 

His  art  and  honors  wouldst  thou  seek 
Embossed  on  grandeur's  giant  walls  ? 

Or  hear  his  moral  thunders  speak 
Where  senates  light  then:  airy  halls, 
Where  man  his  brother  man  enthralls; 

Or  sends  his  whirlwind  warrant  forth 
To  rouse  the  slumbering  fiends  of  war, 
To  dye  the  blood-warm  waves  afar, 

And  desolate  the  earth  ? 

From  clime  to  clime  pursue  the  scene, 
And  mark  in  all  thy  spacious  way, 

Where'er  the  tyrant  man  has  been, 
There  Peace,  the  cherub,  cannot  stay; 
In  wilds  and  woodlands  far  awav 


206         THE  DEATH-BOAT  OF  HELIGOLAND. 

She  builds  her  solitary  "bower, 
Where  only  anchorites  have  trod, 
Or  friendless  men,  to  worship  God, 

Have  wandered  for  an  hour. 

In  such  a  far  forsaken  vale, — 

And  such,  sweet  Eldurn  vale,  is  thine, — 

Afflicted  nature  shall  inhale 

Heaven-borrowed  thoughts  and  joys  divine  j 
No  linger  wish,  no  more  repine, 

For  man's  neglect  or  woman's  scorn ; — 
Then  wed  thee  to  an  exile's  lot, 
For  if  the  world  hath  loved  thee  not, 

Its  absence  may  be  borne. 


THE  DEATH-BOAT  OF  HELIGOLAND. 

CAN  restlessness  reach  the  cold  sepulchred  head  ? 
Ay,  the  quick  have  their  sleep-walkers,  so  have  I1.:.; 

jlead. 
There  are  brains,  though  they  moulder,  that  dream 

in  the  tomb, 
And  that  maddening  forehear  the  last  trumpet  of 

doom, 

Till  their  corses  start  sheeted  to  revel  on  earth, 
Making  horror  more  deep  by  the  semblance  of  mirth : 
By  the  glare  of  new-lighted  volcanoes  they  dance, 
Or  at  mid-sea  appall  the  chilled  mariner's  glance. 
Such,  I  wot,  was  the  band  of  cadaverous  smile 
Seen  ploughing  the  night  surge  of  Heligo's  isle. 

The  foam  of  the  Baltic  had  sparkled  like  fire, 
And  the  red  moon  looked  down  with  an  aspect  of  ire ; 
But  her  beams  on  a  sudden  grew  sick-like  and  gray, 
And  the  mews  that  had  slept  clanged  and  shrieked 
far  away — 


THE  DEATH-BOAT  OF  HELIGOLAND.    -jnr 

And  the  buoys  and  the  beacons  extinguished  their 

light, 

As  the  boat  of  the  stony-eyed  dead  came  in  sight 
High  bounding  from  billow  to  billow ;  each  form 
Had  its  shroud  like  a  plaid  flying  loose  to  the  storm; 
With  an  oar  in  each  pulseless  and  icy-cold  hand, 
Fast  they  ploughed  by  the  lee-shore  of  Heligoland, 
Such  breakers  as  boat  of  the  living  ne'er  crossed  ; 
Now  surf-sunk  for  minutes  again  they  uptossed  ; 
And  with  livid  lips  shouted  reply  o'er  the  flood 
To   the   challenging   watchman   that    curdled    his 

blood — 
'  We  are  dead — we  are  bound  from  our  graves  in  the 

west, 
First  to  Hecla,  and  then  to  '  Unmeet  was  the 

rest 
For  man's  ear.     The  old  abbey  bell  thundered  its 

clang, 
And  their  eyes  gleamed  with  phosphorus  light  as  it 

rang: 
Ere  they  vanished,  they  stopped,  and  gazed  silently 

grim, 
Till  the  eye  could  define  them,  garb,  feature,  and 

limb. 

Now  who  were  those  roamers  ?  of  gallows  or  wheel 
Bore  they  marks,  or  the  mangling  anatomist's  steel  ? 
No,  by,  magistrates'  chains  'mid  then*  grave-clothes 

you  saw 
They  were  felons  too  proud  to  have  perished  by 

law: 
But  a  ribbon  that  hung  where  a  rope  should  have 

been, 
JT  was  the  badge  of  their  faction,  its  hue  was  not 

green, 
Showed  them  men  who  had  trampled  and  tortured 

and  driven 
To    rebellion    the    fairest    Isle    breathed   on    by 

Heaven, — 


203  SONG. 

Men  whose  heirs  would  yet  finish  the  tyrannous  task, 
If  the  Truth  and  the  Time  had  not  dragged  off  their 

mask. 

They  parted — but  not  till  the  sight  might  discern 
A  scutcheon  distinct  at  their  pinnace's  stern, 
Where  letters  emblazoned  in  blood-colored  flame, 
Named  their  faction — I  blot  not  my  page  with  its 

name. 

1828. 


SONG. 

WHEN  Love  came  first  to  earth,  the  SPRING 
Spread  rose-beds  to  receive  him, 

And  back  he  vowed  his  flight  he  ?d  wing 
To  Heaven,  if  she  should  leave  him. 

But  SPRING  departing,  saw  his  faith 
Pledged  to  the  next  new  comer — 

He  revelled  in  the  wanner  breath 
And  licher  bowers  of  SUMMER. 

Then  sportive  AUTUMN  claimed  by  rights 

An  Archer  for  her  lover, 
And  even  in  WINTER'S  dark  cold  nights 

A  charm  he  could  discover. 

i 

Her  routs  and  balls,  and  fireside  joy, 
For  this  time  were  his  reasons — 

In  short,  Young  Love  ;s  a  gallant  boy, 
That  likes  aU  times  and  seasons. 

1829. 


SONG.          ,  20y 


SONG. 

EARL  MARCH  looked  on  his  dying  child, 
And  smit  with  grief  to  view  her — 

The  youth,  he  cried,  whom  I  exiled, 
Shall  be  restored  to  woo  her. 

She 's  at  the  window  many  an  hour 

His  coming  to  discover : 
And  he  looked  up  to  Ellen's  bower, 

And  slie  looked  on  her  lover — 

But  ah !  so  pale,  he  knew  her  not, 

Though  her  smile  on  him  was  dwelling. 

And  am  I  then  forgot — forgot  ? — 
It  broke  the  heart  of  Ellen. 

In  vain  he  weeps,  in  vain  he  sighs, 

Her  cheek  is  cold  as  ashes ; 
Nor  love's  own  kiss  shall  wake  those  eyes 

To  lift  their  silken  lashes. 


SONG. 

WHE>T  NAPOLEOX  was  flying 
From  the  field  of  Waterloo, 

A  British  soldier  dying 
To  his  brother  bade  adieu ! 

"And  take,"  he  said,  "  this  token 
To  the  maid  that  owns  my  faith, 

With  the  words  that  I  have  spoken 
In  affection's  latest  breath." 


210  LINES  TO  JULIA  M . 

Sore  mourned  the  brother's  heart, 
When  the  youth  beside  him  fell ; 

But  the  trumpet  warned  to  part, 
And  they  took  a  sad  farewell. 

There  was  many  a  friend  to  lose  him, 
For  that  gallant  soldier  sighed ; 

But  the  maiden  of  his  bosom 

Wept  when  all  their  tears  were  dried. 


LINES  TO  JULIA  M- 


SEXT  WITH  A  COPY  OF  THE  AUTHOR'S  POEMS 

SINCE  there  is  magic  in  your  look     . 
And  in  your  voice  a  witching  charm, 
As  all  our  hearts  consenting  tell, 
Enchantress,  smile  upon  my  book, 
And  guard  its  lays  from  hate  and  harm. 
By  beauty's  most  resistless  spell. 

The  sunny  dew-drop  of  thy  praise, 
Young  day-star  of  the  rising  time, 
Shall  with  its  odoriferous  morn 
Refresh  my  sere  and  withered  bays 
Smile,  and  I  will  believe  my  rhyme 
Shall  please  the  beautiful  unborn. 

Go  forth,  my  pictured  thoughts,  and  rise 
In  traits  and  tints  of  sweeter  tone, 
When  Julia's  glance  is  o'er  ye  flung ; 
Glow,  gladden,  linger  in  her  eyes, 
And  catch  a  magic  not  your  own, 
Read  by  the  music  of  her  tongue. 


DRINKING  SONG  OF  MUNICH.  I'll 


DRINKING  SONG  OF  MUNICH. 

SWEET  Iser !  were  thy  sunny  realm 

And  flowery  gardens  mine, 
Thy  waters  I  would  shade  with  elm 

To  prop  the  tender  vine ; 
My  golden  flagons  I  would  fill 
With  rosy  draughts  from  every  hill ; 

And  under  every  myrtle  bower, 
My  gay  companions  should  prolong 
The  laugh,  the  revel,  and  the  song, 

To  many  an  idle  hour. 

Like  rivers  crimsoned  with  the  beam 

Of  yonder  planet  bright, 
Our  balmy  cups  should  ever  stream 

Profusion  of  delight ; 
No  care  should  touch  the  mellow  heart, 
And  sad  or  sober  none  depart ; 

For  wine  can  triumph  over  woe, 
And  Love  and  Bacchus,  brother  powers, 
Could  build  in  Iser's  sunny  bowers 

A  paradise  below. 


LINES 

ON  THE  DEPARTURE  OF  EMIGRANTS  FOR  STEW  SOUTH 
WALES. 

Ox  England's  shore  I  saw  a  pensive  band, 

With  sails  unfurled  for  earth's  remotest  strand, 

Like  children  parting  from  a  mother,  shed 

Tears    for  the   home    that    could    not   yield    them 

bread ; 

Grief  marked  each  face  receding  from  the  view, 
'T  was  grief  to  nature  honorably  true. 


Cl-2  LINES. 

And  long,  poor  wanderers  o'er  the  ecliptic  deep, 
The  song  that  names  but  home  shall  make  you 

weep : 

Oft  shall  ye  fold  your  flocks  by  stars  above 
In  that  far  world,  and  miss  the  stars  ye  love ; 
Oft  when  its  tuneless  birds  scream  round  forlorn, 
llegret  the  lark  that  gladdens  England's  morn, 
And,  giving  England's  names  to  distant  scenes, 
Lament  that  earth's  extension  intervenes. 

Hut  cloud  not  yet  too  long,  industrious  train, 
Your  solid  good  with  sorrow  nursed  in  vain  : 
For  has  the  heart  no  interest  yet  as  bland 
As  that  which  binds  us  to  our  native  land  !  [hearth, 
The  deep-drawn  wish,  when   children   crown   our 
To  hear  the  cherub-chorus  of  their  mirth, 
Undamped  by  dread  that  wrant  may  e'er  unhouse, 
Or  servile  misery  knit  those  smiling  brows : 
The  pride  to  rear  an  independent  shed, 
And  give  the  lips  we  love  unborrowed  bread : 
To  see  a  world,  from  shadowy  forests  won, 
In  youthful  beauty  wedded  to  the  sun  ; 
To  skirt  our  home  with  harvests  widely  sown. 
And  call  the  blooming  landscape  all  our  own, 
Our  children's  heritage,  in  prospect  long. 
These  are  the  hopes,  high-minded  hopes  and  strong, 
That  beckon  England's  wanderers  o'er  the  brine, 
To  realms  where  foreign  constellations  shine ; 
AVhere  streams  from  undiscovered  fountains  roll, 
And  winds  shall  fan  them  from  th'  Antarctic  pole. 
And  what  though  doomed  to  shores  so  far  apart 
From  England's  home,  that  even  the  homesick  heart 
Quails,  thinking,  ere  that  gulf  can  be  recrossed, 
How  large  a  space  of  fleeting  life  is  lost : 
Yet  there,  by  time,  their  bosoms  shall  be  changed, 
And  strangers  once  shall  cease  to  sigh  estranged, 
But  jocund  in  the  year's  long  sunshine  roam, 
That  yields  their  sickle  twice  its  harvest-home. 

There,  marking  o'er  his  farm's  expanding  ring 
New  fleeces  whiten  and  new  fruits  upspring, 


LINES.  213 

The   gray-baked   swain,  his  grandchild    sporting 

round, 

Shall  walk  at  eve  his  little  empire's  bound, 
Emblazed  with  ruby  vintage,  ripening  corn, 
And  verdant  rampart  of  acacian  thorn, 
While,  mingling  with  the  scent  his  pipe  exhales, 
The  orange  grove's  and  fig-tree's  breath  prevails ; 
Survey  with  pride  beyond  a  monarch's  spoil, 
His  honest  arm's  own  subjugated  soil ; 
And,  summing  all  the  blessings  God  has  given, 
Put  up  his  patriarchal  prayer  to  Heaven, 
That,  when  his  bones  shall  here  repose  in  peace, 
The  scions  of  his  love  may  still  increase, 
And  o'er  a  land  where  life  has  ample  room, 
In  health' and  plenty  innocently  bloom. 

Delightful  land,  in  wildness  even  benign, 
The  glorious  past  is  ours,  the  future  thine ! 
As  in  a  cradled  Hercules,  we  trace 
The  lines  of  empire  in  thine  infant  face. 
"What  nations  in  thy  wide  horizon's  span 
Shall  teem  on  tracts  untrodden  yet  by  man ! 
What  spacious  cities  with  their  spires  shall  gleam, 
Where  now  the  panther  laps  a  lonely  stream, 
And  all  but  brute  or  reptile  life  is  dumb  ! 
Land  of  the  free !  thy  kingdom  is  to  come, 
Of  states,  with  laws  from  Gothic  bondage  burst, 
And  creeds  by  chartered  priesthoods  uriaccurst : 
Of  navies,  hoisting  their  emblazoned  flags, 
AVhere  shipless  seas  now  wash  unbeaconed  crags ; 
Of  hosts  reviewed  in  dazzling  files  and  squares, 
Their  pennoned  trumpets  breathing  native  airs,-  - 
For  minstrels  thou  shalt  have  of  native  fire, 
And  maids  to  sing  the  songs  themselves  inspire : — 
Our  very  speech,  methinks,  in  after-time, 
Shall  catch  th'  Ionian  blandness  of  thy  clime ; 
And  whilst  the  light  and  luxury  of  thy  skies 
Give  brighter  smiles  to  beauteous  woman's  eyes, 
The  Arts,  whose  soul  is  love,  shall  all  spontaneous 
rise. 


214  LINES. 

Untracked  in  deserts  lies  the  marble  mine, 
Undug  the  ore  that  'midst  thy  roofs  shall  shine  j 
Unborn  the  hands — but  born  they  are  to  be — 
Fair  Australasia,  that  shall  give  to  thee 
Proud  temple-domes,  with  galleries  winding  high,. 
So  vast  in  space,  so  just  in  symmetry, 
They  widen  to  the  contemplating  eye, 
With  colonnaded  aisles  in  long  array, 
And  windows  that  enrich  the  flood  of  day 
O'er  tessellated  pavements,  pictures  fair, 
And  niched  statues  breathing  golden  ah*. 
Nor  there,  whilst  all  that 's  seen  bids  Fancy  swell,. 
Shall  Music's  voice  refuse  to  seal  the  spell ; 
But  choral  hymns  shall  wake  enchantment  round, 
And  organs  yield  their  tempests  of  sweet  sound. 

Meanwhile,    ere    Arts     triumphant    reach    their 

goal, 

How  blest  the  years  of  pastoral  life  shall  roll ! 
Even  should  some  wayward  hour  the  settler's  mind 
Brood  sad  on  scenes  for  ever  left  behind, 
Yet  not  a  pang  that  England's  name  imparts 
Shall  touch  a  fibre  of  his  children's  hearts; 
Bound  to  that  native  land  by  nature's  bond, 
Full  little  shall  then-  wishes  rove  beyond 
Its  mountains  blue,  and  melon-skirted  streams, 
Since    childhood    loved   and    dreamt   of    in    their 

dreams. 

How  many  a  name,  to  us  uncouthly  wild. 
Shall  thrill  that  region's  patriotic  child, 
And  bring  as  sweet  thoughts  o'er  his  bosom's  chords 
As  aught  that 's  named  in  song  to  us  affords  ! 
Dear  shall  that  river's  margin  be  to  him, 
AVhere  sportive  first  he  bathed  his  boyish  limb, 
Or  petted  birds,  still  brighter  than  their  bowers, 
Or  twined  his  tame  young  kangaroo  Avith  flowers. 
But  more  magnetic  yet  to  memory 
Shall  be  the  sacred  spot,  still  blooming  nigh, 
The  bower  of  love,  where  first  his  bosom  burned^ 
And  smiling  passion  saw  its  smile  returned. 


LINES.  215 

Go  forth  and  prosper  then,  emprising  band : 
May  He,  who  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand 
The  ocean  holds,  and  rules  the  whirlwind's  sweep, 
Assuage  its  wrath,  and  guide  you  on  the  deep  ! 

1828. 


LINES 

ON   REVISITING   CATHCART. 

Ofl  !  scenes  of  my  childhood,  and  dear  to  my  heart 
Te  green  waving  woods  on  the  margin  of  Cart, 
How  blest  in  the  morning  of  life  I  have  strayed, 
By  the   stream  of  the  vale  and  the   grass-covered 
glade ! 

Then,  then  every  rapture  was  young  and  sincere, 
Ere  the  sunshine  of  bliss  was  bedimmed  by  a  tear, 
And  a  sweeter  delight  every  scene  seemed  to  lend, 
That   the   mansion    of  peace  was  the    home   of  :i 

FRIEND. 

Now  the  scenes  of"  my  childhood  and  dear  to   my 

heart, 

All  pensive  I  visit,  and  sigh  to  depart ; 
Their  flowers  seem  to  languish,  their  beauty  to  cease, 
JFor  a  stranger  inhabits  the  mansion  of  peace. 

But  hushed  be  the  sigh  that  untimely  complains, 
While  Friendship  and  all  its  enchantment  remains, 
While  it  blooms  like  the    flower    of   a  winterless 

clime, 
Untainted  by  chance,  unabated  by  time. 


216  THE  CHERUBS. 


THE   CHERUBS. 

SUGGESTED  BY  AX  APOLOGUE  IN  THE  WORKS  OF 
FRANKLIN. 

Two  spirits  reached  this  world  of  ours  : 
The  lightning's  locomotive  powers 

Were  slow  to  their  agility : 
In  broad  daylight  they  moved  incog., 
Enjoying  without  mist  or  fog, 

Entire  invisibility. 

The  one,  a  simple  cherub  lad, 
Much  interest  in  our  planet  had, 

Its  face  was  so  romantic ; 
He  could  n't  persuade  himself  that  man 
Was  such  as  heavenly  rumors  ran, 

A  being  base  and  frantic. 

The  elder  spirit,  wise  and  cool, 
Brought  down  the  youth  as  to  a  school  j 

But  strictly  on  condition, 
Whatever  they  should  see  or  hear, 
With  mortals  not  to  interfere  ; 

'T  was  not  in  their  commission. 

They  reached  a  sovereign  city  proud, 
Whose  emperor  prayed  to  God  aloud, 

With  all  his  people  kneeling, 
And  priests  performed  religious  rites  : 
"Come/7  said  the  younger  of  the  sprites, 

"  This  shows  a  pious  feeling.'1 

YOUNG  SPIRIT. 

"  Ar'  n't  these  a  decent  godly  race  ?" 

OLD  SPIRIT. 

"  The  dirtiest  thieves  on  Nature's  face." 


THE  CHERUBS.  217 


YOUNG   SPIRIT. 


"  But  hark,  what  cheers  they  're  giving 
Their  emperor! — And  is  he  a  thief?" 


OLD  SPIRIT. 


"  Ay,  and  a  cut-throat  too ; — in  brief, 

THE  GREATEST  SCOUNDREL  LIVING." 


YOUNG  SPIRIT. 


"  But  say,  what  were  they  praying  for, 
This  people  and  their  emperor?" 

OLD   SPIRIT. 

"  Why,  for  God's  assistance 
To  help  their  army,  late  sent  out : 
And  what  that  army  is  about, 

You  '11  see  at  no  great  distance." 

On  wings  outspeeding  mail  or  post, 
Our  sprites  overtook  the  imperial  host, 

In  massacres  it  wallowed : 
A  noble  nation  met  its  hordes, 
But  broken  fell  their  cause  and  swords, 

Unfortunate,  though  hallowed. 

They  saw  a  late  bombarded  town, 

Its  streets  still  warm  with  blood  ran  down 

Still  smoked  each  burning  rafter ; 
And  hideously,  ;midst  rape  and  sack, 
The  murderer's  laughter  answered  back 

His  prey's  convulsive  laughter. 

They  saw  the  captive  eye  the  dead, 
With  envy  of  his  gory  bed, — 

Death's  quick  reward  of  bravery : 
They  heard  the  clank  of  chains,  and  then 
ISuw  thirty  thousand  bleeding  men 
d  manacled  to  slavery. 


•18  THE  CHERUBS. 

u  Fie !  lie !"  the  younger  heavenly  spark 
Exclaimed: — "we  must  have  missed  our  mark. 

And  entered  hell's  own  portals : 
Earth  can't  be  stained  with  crimes  so  black  j 
Nay,  sure,  we  've  got  among  a  pack 

Of  fiends,  and  noj  of  mortals  f ' 

'•  No,"  said  the  elder,  "  no  such  thing ; 
Fiends  are  not  fools  enough  to  wring 

The  necks  of  one  another : — 
They  know  their  interests  too  well : 
Men  fight ;  but  every  devil  in  hell 

Lives  friendly  with  his  brother. 

And  I  could  point  you  out  some  fellows, 
On  this  ill-fated  planet  Tellu*, 

In  royal  power  that  revel ; 
AVho,  at  the  opening  of  the  book 
( )f  judgment,  may  have  cause  to  look 

With  envy  at  the  devil." 

Name  but  the  devil,  and  he'll  appear. 
Old  Satan  in  a  trice  was  near, 

With  smutty  face  and  figure  : 
Bat  spotless  spirits  of  the  shies 
Unseen  to  e'en  his  saucer  eyes, 

Could  watch  the  fiendish  nigger. 

"  Halloo  !"  he  cried,  "  I  smell  a  trick : 
A  mortal  supersedes  Old  Nick, 

The  scourge  of  earth  appointed : 
He  robs  me  of  my  trade,  entrants 
Tlu  blasphemy  of  hell,  and  vaunts 

Himself  the  Lord's  anointed ! 

Folks  make  a  fuss  about  my  mischief : 

1) d  fools;  they  tamely  suffer  this  chief 

To  play  his  pranks  unbounded." 


TO  SIR  FRANCIS  BURDETT. 

The  cherubs  flew ;  but  saw  from  high, 
At  human  inhumanity, 

The  devil  himself  astounded. 

1632, 


SENEX'S  SOLILOQUY  ON  HIS  YOUTHFUL 
IDOL. 

PLATONIC  friendship  at  your  years, 
Says  Conscience,  should  content  ye : 

Nay,  name  not  fondness  to  her  ears, 
The  darling's  scarcely  twenty. 

Yes,  and  she  '11  loathe  me  unforgiven, 

To  dote  thus  out  of  season  j 
J3ut  beauty  is  a  beam  from  heaven, 

That  dazzles  blind  our  reason. 

I  '11  challenge  Plato  from  the  skies, 
Yes,  from  his  spheres  harmonic 

To  look  in  M — y  C 's  eyes, 

And  try  to  be  Platonic. 


TO  SIE  FRANCIS  BURDETT, 

OJf  HIS  SPEECH  DELIVERED  IN  PARLIAMENT,  AUG- 
UST 7,  1832,  RESPECTING  THE  FOREIGN  POLICY 
OF  GREAT  BRITAIN. 

BURDETT,  enjoy  thy  justly  foremost  fame, 

Through  good  and  ill  report — through  calm  and 

storm — 
For  forty  years  the  pilot  of  reform  ! 

.But  that  which  shall  afresh  entwine  thy  name 


220  TO  SIR  FRANCIS  BURDETT. 

With  patriot  laurels  never  to  be  sere, 
Is  that  thou  hast  come  nobly  forth  to  chide 
Our  slumbering  statesmen  for  their  lack  of  pride — 

Their  flattery  of  Oppressors,  and  their  fear — 
When  Britain's  lifted  finger,  and  her  frown, 
Might  call  the  nations  up,  and  cast  their  tyrants 
down! 

Invoke  the  scorn — Alas !  too  few  inherit 
The  scorn  for  despots  cherished  by  our  sires, 
That  baffled  Europe's  persecuting  fires. 

And  sheltered  helpless  states ! — Recall  that  spirit, 
And  conjure  back  Old  England's  haughty  mind — 

Convert  the  men  who  waver  now,  and  pause 
Between  their  love  of  self  and  humankind ; 

And  move,  Amphion-like,  those  hearts  of  stone — 

The  hearts  that  have  been  deaf  to  Poland's  dying 
groan ! 

Tell  them,  we  hold  the  Rights  of  Man  too  dear, 
To  bless  ourselves  with  lonely  freedom  blest, 
But  could  we  hope,  with  sole  and  selfish  breast, 
To  breathe  untroubled  Freedom's  atmosphere  f — 

Suppose  we  wished  it  ?  England  could  not  stand 
A  lone  oasis  in  the  desert  ground 
Of  Europe's  slavery ;  from  the  waste  around 
Oppression's  fiery  blast  and  whirling  sand 
Would  reach  and  scathe  us?     No;  it  may  not  be: 
Britannia  and  the  world  conjointly  must  bo  free  ! 

Burdett,  demand  why  Britons  send  abroad 
Soft  greetings  to  th'  infanticidal  Czar, 
The  Bear  on  Poland's  babes  that  wages  war. 
Once,  we  are  told,  a  mother's  shriek  o'erawed 

A  lion,  and  he  dropt  her  lifted  child  ; 
But  Nicholas,  whom  neither  God  nor  law, 
Nor  Poland's  shrieking  mothers,  overawe, 
Outholds  to  us  his  friendship's  gory  clutch  : 
Shrink,  Britain — shrink,  my  king  and  country,  from 
.the  touch! 


ODE  TO  THE  GERMANS.  221 

He  prays  to  Heaven  for  England's  kiiiir,  he  says — 
And  dares  he  to  the  God  of  mercy  kneel, 
Besmeared  with  massacres  from  head  to  hcd  .' 

No;  Moloch  is  his  God — to  him  he  prays, 

And  if  his  weird-like  prayers  had  power  to  brim; 

An  influence,  their  power  would  be  to  curse. 

His  hate  is  baleful,  but  his  love  is  worse — 
A  serpent's  slaver  deadlier  than  its  sting ! 

Oh,  feeble  statesmen — ignominious  times, 

That  lick   the  tyrant's   feet,  and   smile  upon   his 


ODE  TO  THE  GERMANS. 

HE  spirit  of  Britannia 

Invokes,  across  the  main, 
Her  sister  Allemannia 

To  burst  the  Tyrant's  chain  : 
By  our  kindred  blood,  she  cries, 
Rise,  Allemannians,  rise, 

And  hallowed  thrice  the  band 
Of  our  kindred  hearts  shall  be, 

When  your  land  shall  be  the  land 
Of  the  free— of  the  free  ! 

With  Freedom's  lion-banner 

Britannia  rules  the  waves ; 
Whilst  your  BROAD  STONE  or  HOXOH* 

Is  still  the  camp  of  slaves. 
For  shame,  for  glory's  sake, 
Wake,  Allemannians,  wake, 

And  thy  tyrants  now  that  whelm 
Half  the  world  shall  quail  and  flee, 

When  your  realm  shall  be  the  realm 
Of  the  free— of  the  free  ! 

*  Ehrenbreitstein  signifies,  ia  German  "  the  broad  stone  of  honor. 


LINES. 

MARS  owes  to  you  his  thunder* 

That  shakes  the  battle  field, 
Yet  to  break  your  bonds  asunder 

No  martial  bolt  has  pealed. 
Shall  the  laurelled  land  of  art 
Wear  shackles  on  her  heart  ? 

No !  the  clock  ye  framed  to  tell, 
By  its  sound,  the  march  of  time ; 

Let  it  clang  oppression's  knell 

O'er  your  clime— o'er  your  clime ! 

The  press's  magic  letters, 

That  blessing  ye  brought  forth, — 
Behold  !  it  lies  in  fetters 

On  the  soil  that  gave  it  birth : 
But  the  trumpet  must  be  heard, 
And  the  charger  must  be  spurred ; 

For  your  father  Armin's  Sprite 
Calls  down  from  heaven,  that  ye 

Shall  gird  you  for  the  fight,     . 

And  be  free  ! — and  be  free ! 

1831. 


LINES 

OR   A    PICTURE    OF   A   GIRL    IX    THE     ATTITUDE     OF 
PRATER. 

By  the  Artist  Gruse,  in  the  possession  of  Lady  Stepney. 

WAS  man  e'er  doomed  that  beauty  made 
By  mimic  heart  should  haunt  him ; 

Like  Orpheus,  I  adore  a  shade, 
And  dote  upon  a  phantom. 

*  Germany  invented  gunpowder,  clock-making,  and  printing. 


LINES. 

Thou  maid  that  in  my  inmost  thought 

Art  i'ancifully  sainted, 
Why  liv'st  thou  not — why  art  thou  nought 

But  canvass  sweetly  painted  ? 

Whose  looks  seem  lifted  to  the  skies, 

Too  pure  for  love  of  mortals — 
As  if  they  drew  angelic  eyes 

To  greet  thee  at  heaven's  portals. 

Yet  loveliness  has  here  no  grace, 

Abstracted  or  ideal — 
Art  ne'er  but  from  a  living  face 

Drew  looks  so  seeming  real. 

What  wert  thou,  maid  ? — thy  life — thy  name, 

Oblivion  hides  in  mystery ; 
Though  from  thy  face  my  heart  could  frame 

A  long  romantic  history. 

Transported  to  thy  time  I  seem, 
Though  dust  thy  coffin  covers — 

And  hear  the  songs,  in  fancy's  dream, 
Of  thy  devoted  lovers. 

How  witching  must  have  been  thy  breath — 
How  sweet  the  living  charmer — 

Whose  every  semblance  after  death 
Can  make  the  heart  grow  warmer ! 

Adieu,  the  charms  that  vainly  move 

My  soul  in  their  possession — 
That  prompt  my  lips  to  speak  of  love. 

Yet  rob  them  of  expression. 

Yet  thee,  dear  picture,  to  have  praised 

Was  but  a  poet's  duty ; 
And  shame  to  him  that  ever  gazed 

Impassive  on  thy  beauty. 

1830. 


SPANISH  PATRIOTS'  SONG. 


SPANISH  PATRIOTS'  SONG. 


How  rings  each  sparkling  Spanish  brand ! 

There  's  music  in  its  rattle, 
And  gay  as  for  a  saraband 
We  gird  us  for  the  battle. 
Follow,  follow, 
To  the  glorious  revelry 
Where  the  sabres  bristle, 
And  the  death-shots  whistle ! 

II. 

Of  rights  for  which  our  swords  outspring 

Shall  Angouleme  bereave  us  ? 
We '  ve  plucked  a  bird  of  nobler  wing — 
The  eagle  could  not  brave  us. 
Follow,  follow, 

Shake  the  Spanish  blade,  and  sing 
France  shall  ne'er  enslave  us, 
Tyrants  shall  not  brave  us ! 

in. 

Shall  yonder  rag,  the  Bourbon's  flag, 

White  emblem  of  his  liver, 
In  Spain  the  proud,  be  Freedom's  shroud  ?- 
O  never,  never,  never 
Follow,  follow, 
Follow  to  the  fight,  and  sing 
Liberty  for  ever, 
Ever,  ever,  ever! 

IV. 

Thrice  welcome  hero  of  the  hilt ! 
We  laugh  to  see  his  standard; 


TO  A  LADY.  225 

Here  let  his  miscreant  blood  be  spilt, 
Where  braver  men's  was  squandered ! 
Follow,  follow, 
If  the  laurelled  tricolor 
Durst  not  overflaunt  us, 
Shall  yon  lily  daunt  us  ? 

v. 

No !  ere  they  quell  our  valor's  veins, 
They'll  upward  to  their  fountains 
Turn  back  the  rivers  on  our  plains, 
And  trample  flat  our  mountains. 
Follow,  follow, 

Shake  the  Spanish  blade,  and  sing 
France  shall  ne'er  enslave  us, 
Tyrants  shall  not  brave  us ! 

1823. 


TO  A  LADY, 

ON   BEING   PRESENTED    WITH    A  SPRICr    OK  ALEXAN- 
DRIAN  LAUREL. 

THIS  classic  laurel !  at  the  sight 

What  teeming  thoughts  suggested  rise  ! 
The  patriot's  and  the  poet's  right, 

The  meed  of  semi-deities ! — 
Men  who  to  death  have  tyrants  hurled. 

Or  bards  who  may  have  swayed  at  will 
And  soothed  that  little  troubled  world — 

The  human  heart — with  sweeter  skill. 

Ah!  lady,  little  it  beseems 

My  brow  to  wear  these  sacred  leaves ! 

Yet,  like  a  treasure  found  in  dreams, 
Thy  gift  most  pleasantly  deceives. 
.T* 


226         TO  THE  POLISH  COUNTESS  R SKI. 

And  where  is  poet  on  the  earth 

Whose  self-love  could  the  meed  withstand- 
Even  though  it  far  out-stripped  his  worth, — 

Given  by  so  beautiful  a  hand  ? 


TO  THE  POLISH  COUNTESS  R SKI. 

i. 

THOUGH  I  honor  you  at  heart 

More  than  these  poor  lines  can  tell ; 
Yet  I  cannot  bear  to  part 

With  a  common  cold  "  farewell." 
We  are  strangers,  far  remote 

In  descent,  and  speech,  and  clime ; 
Yet,  when  first  we  met,  I  thought 

We  were  friends  of  ancient  time ! 

II. 

• 

O,  how  long  shall  I  delight 

In  the  memory  of  that  morn 
When  we  climbed  the  Danube's  height, 

To  the  Fountain  of  the  Thorn  ! 
And  beheld  his  waves  and  islands 

All  glittering  in  the  sun — 
From  Vienna's  gorgeous  towers, 

To  the  mountains  of  the  Hun  ! 

in. 

There  was  gladness  in  the  sky, 

There  was  verdure  all  around  ; 
And,  where'er  it  turned,  the  eye 

Looked  on  rich,  historic  ground ! 
Over  Aspern's  field  of  glory 

Noontide's  purple  haze  was  cast  j 
And  the  hills  of  Turkish  story 

Teemed  with  visions  of  the  past ! 


FRANCIS  HORNER.  225 

IV. 

But  it  was  not  mute  creation, 

Nor  the  land's  historic  pride, 
That  inspired  my  heart's  emotion, 

On  that  lovely  mountain's  side ; 
But  that  you  had  deigned  to  guide  me, 

And,  benignant  and  serene, 
R ski  stood  beside  me, 

Like  the  Genius  of  the  scene ! 


FRANCIS  HORNER. 

YE  who  have  wept,  and  felt,  and  summed  the  whole 

Of  Virtue's  loss  in  Homer's  parted  soul, 

I  speak  to  you  ;  though  words  can  ill  portray 

The  extinguished  light,  the  blessing  swept  away — 

The  soul  high-graced  to  plead,  high-skilled  to  plan, 

For  human  welfare,  gone,  and  lost  to  man  ! 

This  weight  of  truth  subdues  my  power  of  song, 

And  gives  a  faltering  voice  to  feelings  strong ! 

But  I  should  ill  acquit  the  debt  I  feel 

To  private  friendship  and  to  public  zeal, 

Were  my  heart's  tribute  not  with  theirs  to  blend 

Who  loved,  most  intimate,  their  country's  friend  ! 

Or  if  the  Muse,  to  whom  his  living  breath 

Gave  pride  and  comfort,  mourned  him  not  in  death  i 


TO  FLORINE. 

COULD  I  bring  lost  youth  back  again, 
And  be  what  I  have  been, 

I  'd  court  you  in  a  gallant  strain, 
My  young  and  fair  Florine ! 


228  TO  AX  INFANT. 

But  mine  's  the  chilling  age  that  chicles 

Devoted  rapture's  glow; 
And  Love,  that  conquers  all  besides, 

Finds  Time  a  conquering  foe. 

Farewell !     We  're  severed,  by  our  fate,, 
As  far  as  night  from  noon  ; 

You  came  into  this  world  so  late — 
And  /  depart  so  soon  ! 


TO  AN   INFANT. 

SWEET  bud  of  life  !  thy  future  doom 

Is  present  to  my  eyes, 
And  joyously  I  see  thee  bloom 

In  Fortune':;  fairest  skies. 
One  day  that  breast,  scarce  conscious  now. 

Shall  burn  with  patriot  flame ; 
And,  fraught  with  love,  that  little  brow 

Shall  wear  the  wreath  of  Fame. 
When  I  am  dead,  dear  boy  !  thou  "It  take 

These  lines  to  thy  regard — 
Imprint  them  on  thy  heart,  and  make 

A  Prophet  of  the  Bard  ! 


TO 


WHIRLED  by  the  steam's  impetuous  breath; 

I  mark  yon  engine's  mighty  wheel ; 
How  fast  it  forged  the  arms  of  death, 

And  moulded  adamantine  steel ! 


TORLORN  DITTY  ON  RED-RIpING-HOOP. 

But  soon,  that  life-like  scene  to  stop, 
The  steam's  impetuous  breath  to  chill, 

Jt  needed  but  one  single  drop 
Of  water  cold — and  all  was  still ! 

Even  so,  one  tear  by  *  *  shed, 

It  kills  the  bliss  that  once  was  mine ; 

And  rapture  from  my  heart  is  fled, 
Who  caused  a  tear  to  heart  like  thine. 


FORLORN  DITTY  ON  RED-RIDING-HOOD. 

BRIGHTER  than  gem  ever  polished  by  jeweller, 
Fairer  than  flower  that  in  garden  e'er  grew  ! 

Yet    I  'm    sony  to   say  that   to    me    you  Ve   been 

crueller 
Than  the  wolf  in  the  fable  to  granny  and  you  ! 

I  once  was  a  fat  man — the  merriest  of  jokers; 

But  my  phiz  now  rs  as  lank  as  an  old  Jewish  bro- 
ker's, 

And  I  toddle  about  on  two  legs  thin  as  pokers, 
Lamenting  the  lovely  Red-Riding-Hood's  scorn  ! 

I  cannot  eat  food,  and  I  cannot  recover  sleep  : 

Madden  can  cure  all  his  patients  but  me ! 
And  I  verily  think,   when  I  've  taken   the  Lover's 

leap. 

That  my  heart,  like  9,  cinder,  will  hiss  in  the  sea  ! 
Little  Red-Riding-Hood !    why   won't  you   speak   to 

me  '? 
Your  cause   of  offence  is  all  Hebrew   and   Greek  to 

me ! 
I  conjure  a   compassionate  smile   on    your  cheek   to 

me, 
By  all  the  salt  tears  that  have  scalded  my  nose  ! 


230  JOSEPH  MARRY  AT,  M.  P. 

When  I  drown    myself,  punsters  will   pun   in    each 

coterie, 
Saying,   "Strangely  his   actions  and  words    were 

at  strife ' 
For    the     fellow    determined    his    bier    should    be 

watery — 
Though  he  vowed  that   he   hated   small  beer  all 

his  life !" 

Yes,  cruel  maiden !  when  least  o'  't  thou  thinkest, 
I  '11  hie  to  the  sea-beach  ere  yonder  sun  sink  west ; 
And  the  verdict  shall  be  of  the  Coroner's  inquest — 
"He    died    by    the    lovely     Red-Kiding-Hood's 
scorn !" 


JOSEPH  MARRYAT,  M.P. 

MARRY  AT,  farewell !  thy  outward  traits  expressed 
A  manliness  of  nature,  that  combined 
The  thinking  head  and  honorable  breast. 
In  thee  thy  country  lost  a  leading  mind  j 
Yet  they  who  saw  not  privates  life  draw  forth 
Thy  heart's  affections  knew  but  half  thy  worth — 
A  worth  that  soothes  jeven  Friendship's  bitterest  sigh, 
To  lose  thee ;  for  thy  virtues  sprung  from  Faith, 
And  that  high  trust  in  Immortality 
Which  reason  hinteth,  and  religion  saith 
Shall  best  enable  man,  when  he  has  trod 
Life's  path,  to  meet  the  mercy  of  his  GOD  !  • 


SONG. 

MY  mind  is  my  kingdom ;  but,  if  thou  wilt  deign 
To  sway  there  a  queen  without  measure, 

Then  come,  o'er  my  wishes  and  homage  to  reign, 
And  make  it  an  empire  of  pleasure ! 


STANZAS.  231 

Then    of    thoughts    and    emotions,    each    mutinous 

crowd, 

•  That  rebelled  at  stern  Reason  and  Duty, 
Returning,  shall  yield  all  their  loyalty  proud 
To  the  halcyon  dominion  of  Beauty ! 

What  arm  that  entwines  thee  need  envy  the  fame 

Of  conquest  in  War's  bloody  story  ? 
Thy  smiles  are  my  triumphs — my  motto  thy  name  j 

And  thy  picture,  my  'scutcheon  of  Glory ! 


STANZAS. 

ALL  mortal  joys  I  could  forsake, 

Bid  home  and  friends  adieu! 
Of  life  itself  a  parting  take, 

But  never  of  you,  my  love — 

Never  of  you ! 

For  sure,  of  all  that  know  thy  worth, 

This  bosom  beats  most  true; 
And  where  could  I  behold  on  earth 

Another  form  like  you,  my  love— 

Another  like  you ! 


ON  ACCIDENTALLY  POSSESSING  AND  RE- 
TURNING MISS  B 'S  PICTURE. 

I  KNOW  not,  Lady,  which  commandment 
In  painting  this  the  artist's  hand  meant 

To  make  us  chiefly  break  ; 
But  sure  the  owner's  bliss  I  covet, 
And  half  would,  for  possession  of  it, 

Turn  thief  and  risk  mv  neck. 


232  SONG. 

Yet,  as  Prometheus  rued  the  fetching 
Of  fire  from  Heaven  to  light  his  kitchen, 

So,  if  I  stole  this  treasure  , 
To  warm  my  fancy  at  the  light 
Of  those  young  eyes,  perhaps  I  might 

Repent  it  at  my  leisure. 

An  old  man  for  a  young  maid  dying, 
Grave  forty-five  for  nineteen  sighing, 

Would  merit  Wisdom's  stricture ! 
And  so,  to  save  myself  from  kindling, 
As  well  as  being  sued  for  swindling, 

I  send  you  back  the  picture. 


SONG. 

I  GAVE  my  love  a  chain  of  gold 

Around  her  neck  to  bind ; 
She  keeps  me  in  a  faster  hold 

And  captivates  my  mind. 
Methinks  that  mine  's  the  harder  part : 

Whilst  'neath  her  lovely  chin 
She  carries  links  outside  her  heart, 

My  fetters  are  within  ! 


TO  MARY  SINCLAIR,  WITH  A  VOLUME  OF 
HIS  POEMS. 

Go,  simple  Book  of  Ballads,  go 
From  Eaton-street,  in  Pimlico; 
It  is  a  gift,  my  love  to  show — 

To  Mary! 


TO  MARY  SINCLAIR.  233 

And,  more  its  value  to  increase, 
I  swear,  by  all  the  gods  of  Greece, 
It  cost  a  seven-shilling  piece — 

My  Mary ! 

But  what  is  gold,  so  bright  that  looks, 
Or  all  the  coins  of  miser's  nooks, 
Compared  to  be  in  thy  good  books — 

^  My  Mary ! 

Now  witness  earth,  and  skies,  and  main! 
The  boot  to  thee  shall  appertain; 
I  '11  never  ask  it  back  again — 

My  Mary ! 

But  what,  you  say,  shall  you  bestow  ? 
For,  as  the  world  now  goes,  you  know, 
There  always  is  a  quid  pro  quo — 

My  Mary ! 

I  ask  not  twenty  hundred  kisses, 

Nor  smile,  the  lover's  heart  that  blesses, 

As  poets  ask  from  other  Misses — 

My  Mary! 

I  ask  that,  till  the  day  you  die. 
You  '11  never  pull  my  wig  awry, 
Nor  ever  quiz  my  poetrye — 

My  Mary! 


234  THE  PILGKIM  OF  GLENCOE. 


THE  PILGRIM  OF  GLENCOE. 

I  received  the  substance  of  the  tradition  on  which  this  Poem 
is  founded,  in  the  first  instance,  from  a  friend  in  London,  who 
wrote  to  Matthew  N.  Macdonald,  Esq.,  of  Edinburgh.  He  had 
the  kindness  to  send  me  a  circumstantial  account  of  the  tradi- 
tion ;  and  that  gentleman's  knowledge  of  the  Highlands,  as 
well  as  his  particular  acquaintance  with  the  district  of  Glencoe, 
leave  me  no  doubt  of  the  incident  having  really  happened.  I 
have  not  departed  from  the  main  facts  of  the  tradition  as  re- 
ported to  me  by  Mr.  Macdonald ;  only  I  have  endeavored  to 
color  the  personages  of  the  story,  and  to  make  them  as  distinc- 
tive as  possible. 

THE  sunset  sheds  a  horizontal  smile 
O'er  Highland  frith  and  Hebridean  isle, 
While,  gay  with  gambols  of  its  finny  shoals, 
The  glancing  wave  rejoices  as  it  rolls 
With  streamered  busses,  that  distinctly  shine 
All  downward,  pictured  in  the  glassy  brine ; 
Whose  crews,  with  faces  brightening  in  the  sun, 
Keep  measure  with  their  oars,  and  all  in  one 
Strike  up  'th'  old   Gaelic   song. — Sweep,    rowers, 


sweep 


The  fisher's  glorious  spoils  are  in  the  deep. 

Day  sinks — but  twilight  owes  the  traveller  soon, 
To  reach  his  bourne,  a  round  unclouded  moon, 
Bespeaking  long  undarkened  hours  of  time ; 
False  hope — the    Scots  are    steadfast — not    their 

clime. 

A  war-worn  soldier  from  the  western  land 
Seeks  Cona's  vale  by  Ballihoula's  strand ; 
The  vale,  by  eagle-haunted  cliffs  o'erhung, 
Where    Fingal    fought,   and    Ossian's    harp    was 

strung — 


THE  PILGRIM  OF  GLENCOE.  235 

Our  veteran's  forehead,  bronzed  on  sultry  plains, 
Had  stood  the  brunt  of  thirty  fought  campaigns ; 
He  well  could  vouch  the  sad  romance  of  wars, 
And  count  the  dates  of  battles  by  his  scars  ; 
For  he  had  served  where  o'er  and  o'er  again 
Britannia's  oriflamme  had  lit  the  plain 
Of  Glory — and  victorious  stamped  her  name 
On  Oudenarde's  and  Blenheim's  fields  of  fame. 
Nine  times  in  battle-field  his  blood  had  streamed, 
Yet  vivid  still  his  veteran  blue  eye  gleamed ; 
Full  well  he  bore  his  knapsack — unoppressed, 
And  marched  with  soldier-like  erected  crest : 
Nor  sign  of  even  loquacious  age  he  wore, 
Save  when  he  told  his  life's  adventures  o'er : 
Some  tired  of  these ;  for  terms  to  him  were  dear, 
Too  tactical  by  far  for  vulgar  ear ; 
As  when  he  talked  of  rampart  and  ravine, 
And  trenches  fenced  with  gabion  and  fascine — 
But  when  his  theme  possessed  him  all  and  whole, 
He  scorned  proud  puzzling  words  and  warmed  tin 

soul; 

Hushed  groups  hung  on  his  lips  with  fond  surprint 
That  sketched  old  scenes — like  pictures   to  tht-ii 

eyes : — 

The  wide  war-plain,  with  banners  glowing  bright, 
And  bayonets  to  the  furthest  stretch  of  sight ; 
The  pause,  more  dreadful  than  the  peal  to  come 
From  volleys  blazing  at  the  beat  of  drum — 
Till  all  the  field  of  thundering  lines  became 
Two  level  and  confronted  sheets  of  flame. 
Then  to  the  charge,  when  Marlbro's  hot  pursuit 
Trode  France's  gilded  lilies  underfoot ; 
He  came  and  kindled — and  with  martial  lung 
Would  chant  the  very  march  their  trumpets  sung. — 

Th'  old  soldier  hoped,  ere  evening's  light  should 

fail, 

To  reach  a  home,  south-east  of  Cona's  vale ; 
But  looking  at  Bennevis,  capped  with  snow, 


23C  THE  PILGRIM  OF  GLENCOE. 

lie  saw  its  mists  come  curling  down  below, 
And  spread  white  darkness  o'er  the  sunset  glow; — 
Fast  rolling  like  tempestuous  Ocean's  spray, 
Or  clouds  from  troops  in  battle's  fiery  day — 
So  dense,  his  quarry  'scaped  the  falcon's  sight, 
The  owl  alone  exulted,  hating  light. 

Benighted  thus  our  pilgrim  groped  his  ground, 
Half  'twixt  the  river's  and  the  cataract's  sound. 
At  last  a  sheep-dog's  bark  informed  his  ear 
Some  human  habitation  might  be  near ; 
Anon  sheep-bleatings  rose  from  rock  to  rock, — 
'T  was  Luath  hounding  to  their  fold  the  flock. 
Ere  long  the  cock's  obstreperous  clarion  rang, 
And  next,   a    maid's   sweet  voice,   that    spinning; 

sang: 

At  last  amidst  the  green-sward  (gladsome  sight!) 
A  cottage  stood,  with  straw-roof  golden  bright. 

He  knocked,  was  welcomed  in ;    none  asked  his 

name, 

Nor  whither  he  was  bound  nor  whence  he  came ; 
But  he  was  beckoned  to  the  stranger's  seat, 
Right  side  the  chimney  fire  of  blazing  peat. 
Blest  Hospitality  makes  not  her  home 
In  walled  parks  and  castellated  dome ; 
She  flies  the  city's  needy,  greedy  crowd, 
And  shuns  stiH  more  the  mansions  of  the  proud ; 
The  balm  of  savage  or  of  simple  life, 
A  wild  flower  cut  by  culture's  polished  knife  ! 

The  house,  no  common  sordid  shieling  cot, 
Spoke  inmates  of  a  comfortable  lot. 
The  Jacobite  white  rose  festooned  their  door ; 
The  windows  sashed  and  glazed,  the  oaken  floor, 
The  chimney  graced  with  antlers  of  the  deer, 
The  rafters  hung  with  meat  for  winter  cheer, 
And  all  the  mansion,  indicated  plain 
Its  master  a  superior  shepherd  swain. 


THE  PILGRIM  OF  GLENCOE.  237 

Their  supper  came — the  table  soon  was  spread 

With  eggs  and  milk  and  cheese  and  barley  bread. 

The  family  were  three — a  father  hoar, 

Whose  age  you'd  guess  at  seventy  years  or  more, 

His  son  looked  fifty — cheeiful  like  her  lord 

His  comely  wife  presided  at  the  board  j 

All  three  had  that  peculiar  courteous  grace 

Which  marks  the  meanest  of  the  Highland  race  : 

Warm  hearts  that  bum  alike  in  weal  and  woe, 

As  if  the  north-wind  fanned  their  bosom's  glow  '. 

But  wide  unlike  their  souls :  old  Norman's  eye 

Was  proudly  savage  even  in  courtesy. 

His  sinewy  shoulders — each,  though  aged  and  lean, 

Broad  as  the  curled  Herculean  head  between, — 

His  scornful  lip,  his  eyes  of  yellow  fire, 

And  nostrils  that  dilated  quick  with  ire, 

With  ever  downward-slanting  shaggy  brows, 

Marked  the  old  lion  you  would  dread  to  rouse. 

Norman,  in  truth,  had  led  his  earlier  life 

In  raids  of  red  revenge  and  feudal  strife ; 

Religious  duty  in  revenge  he  saw, 

Proud  Honor's  right  and  Nature's  honest  law  ; 

First  in  the  charge  and  foremost  in  pursuit, 

Long-breathed,  deep- chested,  and  in  speed  of  font 

A  match  for  stags — still  fleeter  when  the  prey 

Was  man,  in  persecution's  evil  day ; 

Cheered  to  that  chase  by  brutal  bold  Dundee, 

No  Highland  hound  had  lapped  more  blood  than  he. 

Oft  had  he  changed  the  covenanter's  breatli 

From  howls  of  psalmody  to  howls  of  death ; 

And  though  long  bound  to  peace  it  irked  him  still 

His  dirk  had  ne'er  one  hated  foe  to  kill. 

Yet  Norman  had  fierce  virtues,  that  .would  mock 

Cold-blooded  tones  of  the  modern  stock 

Who   starve  the   breadless    poor  with   fraud  and 

cant ; — 
He  slew  and  saved  them  from  the  pangs  of  want. 


238  THE  PILGRIM  OF  GLENCOE. 

Nor  was  his  solitary  lawless  charm 

Mere  dauntlessness  of  soul  and  strength  of  anri ; 

He  had  his  moods  of  kindness  now  and  then, 

And  feasted  even  well-mannered  lowland  men 

Who  blew  not  up  his  Jacobitish  flame, 

Nor  prefaced  with  "  pretender"  Charles's  nair,e. 

Fierce,  but  by  sense  and  kindness  not  unwon; 

He  loved,  respected  even,  his  wiser  son ; 

And  brooked  from  him  expostulations  sage, 

When  all  advisers  else  were  spurned  with  rage. 

Far  happier  times  had  moulded  Ronald's  mind, 
By  nature  too  of  more  sagacious  kind. 
His  breadth  of  brow,  and  Roman  thape  of  chin, 
Squared  well  with  the  firm  man  that  reigned  within: 
Contemning  strife  as  childishness,  he  stood 
With  neighbors  on  kind  terms  of  neighborhood, 
And  whilst  his  father's  anger  nought  availed, 
His  rational  remonstrance  never  failed. 
Full  skilfully  he  managed  farm  and  fold, 
Wrote,  ciphered,  profitably  bought  and  sold  ; 
And,  blessed  with  pastoral  leisure,  deeply  took 
Delight  to  be  informed,  by  speech  or  book, 
Of  that  wide  world  beyond  his  mountain  home, 
Where  oft  his  curious  fancy  loved  to  roam. 
Oft  while  his  faithful  dog  ran  round  his  flock, 
He  read  long  hours  when  summer  warmed  the  rock : 
Guests  who  could  tell  him  aught   were  welcomed 

warm, 

Even  peddlers'  news  had  to  his  mind  a  charm  ; 
That  like  an  intellectual  magnet-stone 
Drew  truth  from  judgments  simpler  than  his  own. 

His  soul's  proud  instinct  sought  not  to  enjoy 
Romantic  fictions,  like  a  minstrel  boy ; 
Truth,  standing  on  her  solid  square,  from  youth 
He  worshipped— stem  uncompromising  truth.  -  •• 
His  goddess  kindlier  smiled  on  him,  to  find 
A  votary  of  her  light  in  land  so  blind ; 


THE  PILGRIM  OF  GLENCOE.  239 

She  bade  majestic  History  unroll 

Broad  views  of  public  welfare  to  his  soul, 

Until  he  looked  on  clannish  feuds  and  foes 

With  scorn,  as  on  the  wars  of  kites  and  crows  ; 

Whilst  doubts  assailed  him  o'er  and  o'er  again ; 

If  men  were  made  for  kings  or  kings  for  men. 

At  last,  to  Norman's  horror  and  dismay, 

He  flat  denied  the  Stuarts'  right  to  sway. 

No  blow-pipe  ever  whitened  furnace  lire, 

Quick  as  these  words  lit  up  his  father's  ire ; 

Who  envied  even  old  Abraham  for  his  faith, 

Ordained  to  put  his  only  son  to  death. 

He  started  up — in  such  a  mood  of  soul 

The  white  bear  bites  his  showman's  stirring-pole  ; 

He  danced  too,  and  brought  out,  with  snarl  and  howl. 

"  O  Dia !  Dia !"  and,  "  Dioul !  Dioul !  "* 

But  sense  foils  fury — as  the  blowing  whale 

Spouts,  bleeds,  and  dyes  the  waves  without  avail — 

Wears  out  the  cable's  length  that  makes  him  last, 

But  worn  himself,  comes  up  harpooned  at  last — 

E'en  so,  devoid  of  sense,  succumbs  at  length 

Mere  strength  of  zeal  to  intellectual  strength. 

His  son's  close  logic  so  perplexed,  his  pate, 

Th'  old  hero  rather  shunned  than  sought  debate ; 

Exhausting  his  vocabulary's  store 

Of  oaths  and  nicknames,  he  could  say  no  more, 

But  tapped  his  mull,t  rolled  mutely  in  his  chair, 

Or  only  whistled  Killiecrankie's  air. 

Witch-legends  Ronald  scorned — ghost,  kelpie,wraith7 
And  all  the  trumpery  of  vulgar  faith  ; 
Grave  matrons  even  were  shocked  to  hear  him  slight 
Authenticated  facts  of  second-sight — 
Yet  never  flinched  his  mockery  to  confound 
The  brutal  superstition  reigning  round. 
Reserved  himself,  still  Ronald  loved  to  scan 
Men's  natures — and  he  liked  the  old  hearty  man  ; 

*  God  and  the  devil— a  favorite  ejaculation  of  Higl.land  .saiuts. 
t  Snuff -horn. . 


240  THE  PILGRIM  OF  GLEXCOE. 

So  did  the  partner  of  his  heart  and  life — 

WJio  pleased  her  Ronald,  ne'er  displeased  his  wife. 

His  sense,  't  is  true,  compared  with  Norman's  son, 

Was  commonplace — his  tales  too  long  outspun : 

Yet  Allan  Campbell's  sympathizing  mind 

Had  held  large  intercourse  with  humankind ; 

Seen  much,  and  gaily  graphically  drew 

The  men  of  every  country,  clime,  and  hue ; 

Nor  ever  stooped,  though  soldier-like  his  strain, 

To  ribaldry  of  mirth  or  oath  profane. 

All  went  harmonious  till  the  guest  began 

To  talk  about  his  kindred,  chief  and  clan, 

And,  with  his  own  biography  engrossed, 

Marked  not  the  changed  demeanor  of  each  host ; 

Nor  how  old  choleric  Norman's  cheek  became 

Flushed  at  the  Campbell  and  Breadalbane  name. 

Assigning,  heedless  of  impending  harm, 

Their  steadfast  silencs  to  his  story's  charm, 

He  touched  a  subject  perilous  to  touch — 

Saying,  "  Midst  this  well-known  vale  I  wondered 

much 

To  lose  my  way.     In  boyhood,  long  ago, 
I  roamed,  and  loved  each  pathway  of  Glencoe ; 
Trapped  leverets,  plucked  wild  berries  on  its  braes, 
And  fished  along  its  banks  long  summer  days. 
But  times  grew  stormy — bitter  feuds  arose, 
Our  clan  was  merciless  to  prostrate  foes. 
I  never  palliated  my  chieftain's  blame, 
But  mourned  the  sin,  and  reddened  for  the  shame 
Of  that  foul  mom  (Heaven  blot  it  from  the  year !) 
Whose  shapes  and  shrieks  still  haunt  my  dreaming  ear. 
What  could  I  do  ?  a  serf — Glenlyon's  page, 
A  soldier  sworn  at  nineteen  years  of  age ; 
T'  have  breathed  one  grieved  remonstrance  to  our 

chief, 
The  pit  or  gallows*  would  have  cured  my  grief. 

*  To  hang  their  vassals,  or  starve  them  to  death  in  a  dungeon,  was 
a  privilege  of  the  Highland  chiefs  who  had  hereditary  jurisdic- 
tions. 


THE  PILGRIM  OF  GLENCOE.  241 

Forced,  passive  as  the  musket  in  my  hand, 
I  marched — when,  feigning  royalty's  command, 
Against  the  clan  Macdonald,  Stair's  lord 
Sent  forth  exterminating  fire  and  sword ; 
And  troops  at  midnight  through  the  vale  defiled, 
Enjoined  to  slaughter  woman,  man,  and  child. 
My  clansmen  many  a  year  had  cause  to  dread 
The  curse  that  day  entailed  upon  their  head  ; 
Glenlyon's  self  confessed  th'  avenging  spell — 
I  saw  it  light  on  him. 

"  It  so  befell  :— 

A  soldier  from  our  ranks  to  death  was  brought, 
By  sentence  deemed  too  dreadful  for  his  fault ; 
All  was  prepared — the  coffin  and  the  cart 
Stood  near  twelve  muskets,  levelled  at  his  heart. 
The  chief,  whose   breast  for  rath  had  still  some 

room, 

Obtained  reprieve  a  day  before  his  doom  ; — 
But  of  the  awarded  boon  surmised  no  breath. 
The  sufferer,  knelt,  blindfolded  waiting  death, — 
And  met  it.     Though  Glenlyon  had  desired 
The  musketeers  to  watch  before  they  fired ; 
If  from  his  pocket  they  should  see  he  drew 
A  hankerchief — their  volley  should  ensue ; 
But  if  he  held  a  paper  in  its  place, 
It  should  be  hailed  the  sign  of  pardoning  grace  : — 
He,  in  a  fatal  moment's  absent  fit, 
Drew  forth  the  handkerchief,  and  not  the  writ ; 
Wept  o'er  the  corpse  and  wrung  his  hands  in  woe, 
Crying,  l  Here  's  thy  curse  again — Glencoe     Glen- 

coe!'" 

Though  thus  his  guest  spoke  feelings  just  and  clear, 
The  cabin's  patriarch  lent  impatient  ear ; 
Wroth  that,  beneath  his  roof,  a  living  man 
Should  boast  the  swine-blood  of  the  Campbell  clan. 
He  hastened  to  the  door — called  out  his  son 
To  follow ;  walked  a  space,  and  thus  begun  : — 
"  You  have  not,  Ronald,  at  this  day  to  learn 
The  oath  I  took  beside  my  father's  cairn, 
K 


242  THE  PILGRIM  OF  GLENCOE. 

When  you  were  but  a  babe  a  twelvemonth  born  j 

Sworn  on  my  dirk — by  all  that 's  sacred,  sworn 

To  be  revenged  for  blood  that  cries  to  Heaven — 

Blood  unforgivable,  and  unforgiven : 

But  never  power,  since  tJien,  have  I  possessed 

To  plant  my  dagger  in  a  Campbell's  breast. 

Now,  here  's  a  self-accusing  partisan, 

Steeped  in  the  slaughter  of  Macdonald's  clan  ; 

I  scorn  his  civil  speech  and  sweet-lipped  show 

Of  pity — he  is  still  our  house's  foe : 

I  '11  perjure  not  myself — but  sacrifice 

The  caitiff  ere  to-morrow's  sun  arise. 

Stand  !  hear  me — you  're  my  son,  the  deed  is  jusr, 

And  if  I  say — it  must  be  done — it  must : 

A  debt  of  honor  which  my  clansmen  crave, 

Their  very  dead  demand  it  from  the  grave." 

Conjuring  then  their  ghosts,  he  humbly  prayed 

Their  patience  till  the  blood-debt  should  be  paid. 

But  Ronald  stopped  him. — "  Sir,  Sir,  do  not  dim 

Your  honor  by  a  moment's  angry  whim ; 

Your  soul  's  too  just  and  generous,  were  you  cool, 

To  act  at  once  th'  assassin  and  the  fool. 

Bring  me  the  men  on  whom  revenge  is  due, 

And  I  will  dirk  them  willingly  as  you ! 

But  all  the  real  authors  of  that  black 

Old  deed  are  gone — you  cannot  bring  them  back — 

And  this  poor  guest,  't  is  palpable  to  judge, 

In  all  his  life  ne'er  bore  our  clan  a  grudge ; 

Dragged  when  a  boy  against  his  will  to  share 

That  massacre,  he  loathed  the  foul  affair. 

Think,  if  your  hardened  heart  be  conscience  proof, 

To  stab  a  stranger  underneath  your  roof ! 

One  who  has  broken  bread  within  your  gate — 

Reflect — before  reflection  comes  too  late, — 

Such  ugly  consequences  there  may  be 

As  judge  and  jury,  rope  and  gallows-tree. 

The  days  of  dirking  snugly  are  gone  by, 

Where  could  you  hide  the  body  privily 

When  search  is  made  for  't  ?" 


THE  PILGRIM  OF  GLENCOE.  243 

"  Plunge  it  in  yon  flood, 

That  Campbells  crimsoned  with  our  kindred  blood." 
"  Ay,  but  the  corpse  may  float  —  " 

"  Pshaw  !  dead  men  tell 
No  tales  —  nor  will  it  float  if  leaded  well. 
I  am  determined  !"  —  What  could  Ronald  do  ? 
No  house  within  ear-reach  of  his  halloo, 
Though  that  would  but  have  published  household 

shame, 

He  temporized  with  wrath  he  could  not  tame, 
And  said  "  Come  in,  till  night  put  off  the  deed, 
And  ask  a  few  more  questions  ere  he  bleed." 
They  entered  ;  Norman  with  portentous  air 
Strode  to  a  nook  behind  the  stranger's  chair, 
And,  speaking  nought,  sat  grimly  in  the  shade, 
With  dagger  in  his  clutch  beneath  his  plaid. 
His  son's  own  plaid,  should  Norman   pounce  his 


Was  coiled  thick  round  his  arm,  to  turn  away 
Or  blunt  the  dirk.     He  purposed  leaving  free 
The  door,  and  giving  Allan  time  to  flee, 
Whilst  he  should  wrestle  with,  (no  safe  emprise,) 
His  father's  maniac  strength  and  giant  size. 
Meanwhile  he  could  nowise  communicate 
The  impending  peril  to  his  anxious  mate  ; 
But  she,  convinced  no  trifling  matter  now 
Disturbed  the  wonted  calm  of  Ronald's  brow, 
Divined  too  well  the  cause  of  gloom  that  lowered, 
And  sat  with  speechless  terror  overpowered, 
Her  face  was  pale,  so  lately  blithe  and  bland, 
The  stocking  knitting-wire  shook  in  her  hand. 
But  Ronald  and  the  guest  resumed  their  thread 
Of  converse,  still  its  theme  that  day  of  dread. 
"  Much,"  said  the  veteran,  "  much  as  I  bemoan 
That  deed,  when  half  a  hundred  years  have  flown, 
Still  on  one  circumstance  I  can  reflect 
That  mitigates  the  dreadful  retrospect. 
A  mother  with  her  child  before  us  flew, 
I  had  the  hideous  mandate  to  pursue  ; 


244  THE  PILGRIM  OF  GLENCOE. 

But  swift  of  foot,  outspeeding  bloodier  men, 

I  chased,  o'ertook  her  in  the  winding  glen, 

And  showed  her  palpitating,  where  to  save 

Herself  and  infant  in  a  secret  cave ; 

Nor  left  them  till  I  saw  that  they  could  mock 

Pursuit  and  search  within  that  sheltering  rock." 

"  Heavens !"  Ronald  cried,  in  accents  gladly  wild, 

"  That  woman  was  my  mother — I  the  child  ! 

Of  you  unknown  by  name  she  late  and  air  *  . 

Spoke,  wept,  and  ever  blessed  you  in  her  prayer, 

Even  to  her  death ;  describing  you  withal 

A  well-looked  florid  youth,  blue-eyed  and  tall." 

They  rose,  exchanged  embrace :  the  old  lion  then 

Upstarted,  metamorphosed,  from  his  den ; 

Saying,  il  Come  and  make  thy  home  with  us  for  life, 

Heaven-sent  preserver  of  my  child  and  wife. 

I  fear  thou  'rt  poor,  that  Hanoverian  thing 

Rewards  his  soldiers  ill." — "  God  save  the  king !" 

With  hand  upon  his  heart  old  Allan  said, 

"  I  wear  his  uniform,  I  eat  his  bread, 

And  whilst  I  Ve  tooth  to  bite  a  cartridge,  all 

For  him  and  Britain's  fame  I  '11  stand  or  fall." 

"Bravo  !"  cried  Ronald.     "  I  commend  your  zeal," 

Quoth  Norman,  "  and  I  see  your  heart  is  leal  ; 

But  I  have  prayed  my  soul  may  never  thrive 

If  thou  should'st  leave  this  house  of  ours  alive. 

Nor  shalt  thou ;  in  this  home  protract  thy  breath 

Of  easy  life,  nor  leave  it  till  thy  death." 

The  following  morn  arose  serene  as  glass, 
And  red  Bennevis  shone  like  molten  brass  ; 
While  sunrise  opened  flowers  with  gentle  force, 
The  guest  and  Ronald  walked  in  long  discourse, 
"  Words  fail  me,"  Allan  said,  "  to  thank  aright 
Your  father's  kindness  shown  me  yesternight ; 
Yet  scarce  I  'd  wish  my  latest  days  to  spend 
A  fireside  fixture  with  the  dearest  friend : 

*  Scotch  for  late  and  early. 


THE  PILGRIM  OF  GLENCOE.  24o 

Besides,  I  've  but  a  fortnight's  furlough  now, 

To  reach  Macallin  More,*  beyond  Lochawe. 

I  'd  fain  memoriah'ze  the  powers  that  be, 

To  deign  remembrance  of  my  wounds  and  me ; 

My  life-loug  service  never  bore  the  brand 

Of  sentence — lash— disgrace  or  reprimand. 

And  so  I  've  written,  though  in  meagre  style, 

A  long  petition  to  his  Grace  Argyle ; 

I  mean  on  reaching  Innerara's  shore, 

To  leave  it  safe  within  his  castle  door." 

*•  Nay,"  Ronald  said,  "  the  letter  that  you  bear 

Entrust  it  to  no  lying  varlet's  care ; 

But  say  a  soldier  of  King  George  demands 

Access,  to  leave  it  in  the  Duke's  own  hands. 

But  show  me,  first,  the  epistle  to  your  chief, 

T  is  nought,  unless  succinctly  clear  and  brief: 

•Great   men   have   no   great    patience    when    they 

read, 
And  long  petitions  spoil  the  cause  they  plead." 

That  day  saw  Ronald  from  the  field  full  soon 
Return ;  and  when  they  all  had  dined  at  noon, 
He   conned   the   old   man's   memorial — lopped   its 

length, 

And  gave  it  style,  simplicity,  and  strength  ; 
'T  was  finished  in  an  hour — and  in  the  next 
Transcribed  by  Allan  in  perspicuous  text. 
At  evening,  he  and  Ronald  shared  once  more 
A  long  and  pleasant  walk  by  Cona's  shore. 
*'  I  M  press  yon,"  quoth  his  host — ("  I  need  not  say 
How  warmly)  ever  more  with  us  to  stay  ; 
But  Charles  intends,  't  is  said,  in  these  same  parts 
To  try  the  fealty  of  our  Highland  hearts. 
'T  is  my  belief,  that  he  and  all  his  line 
Have — saving  to  be  hanged — no  right  divine  ; 
From  whose  mad  enterprise  can  only  flow 
To  thousands  slaughter,  and  to  myriads  woe. 

*The  Duke  of  Argyle. 


246  THE  PILGRIM  OF  GLENCOE. 

Yet  have  they  stirred  my  father's  spirit  sore, 
He  flints  his  pistols — whets  his  old  claymore— 
And  longs  as  ardently  to  join  the  fray 
As  boy  to  dance  who  hears  the  bagpipe  play.    ' 
Though  calm  one  day,  the  next,  disdaining  rule, 
He  'd  gore  your  red-coat  like  an  angry  bull : 
I  told  him,  and  he  owned  it  might  be  so, 
Your  tempers  never  could  in  concert  flow. 
But  '  Mark/  he  added,  l  Ronald !  from  our  door 
Let  not  this  guest  depart  forlorn  and  poor ; 
Let  not  your  souls  the  niggardness  evince 
Of  lowland  peddler,  or  of  German  prince ; 
He  gave  you  life — then  feed  him  as  you  M  feed 
Your  very  father  were  he  cast  in  need.' 
He  gave — you  '11  find  it  by  your  bed  to-night, 
A  leathern  purse  of  crowns,  all  sterling  bright : 
You  see  I  do  you  kindness  not  by  stealth. 
My  wife — no  advocate  of  squandering  wealth — 
Vows  that  it  would  be  parricide,  or  worse, 
Should  we  neglect  you — here 's  a  silken  purse, 
Some  golden  pieces  through  the  network  shine, 
7T  is  proffered  to  you  from  her  heart  and  mine. 
But  come !  no  foolish  delicacy,  no ! 
We  own,  but  cannot  cancel  what  we  owe — 
This  sum  shall  duly  reach  you  once  a  year." 
Poor  Allan's  furrowed  face  and  flowing  tear 
Confessed  sensations  which  he  could  not  speak. 
Old  Norman  bade  him  farewell  kindly  meek. 

At  morn,  the  smiling  dame  rejoiced  to  pack 
With  viands  full  the  old  soldier's  haversack. 
He  feared  not  hungry  grass*  with  such  a  load, 
And  Ronald  saw  him  miles  upon  his  road. 
A  march  of  three  days  brought  him  to  Lochfyne. 
Argyle,  struck  with  his  manly  look  benign, 
And  feeling  interest  in  the  veteran's  lot, 
Created  him  a  sergeant  on  the  spot  — 

*  When  the  hospitable  Highlanders  load  a  parting  guest  with 
provisions,  they  tell  him  he  will  need  them,  as  he  has  to  go  over  a 
great  deal  of  hungry  grass. 


THE  PILGRIM  OF  GLENCOE.  247 

An  invalid,  to  serve  not — but  with  pay 

(A  mighty  sum  to  him),  twelve-pence  a  clay. 

"  But  have  you  heard  not,"  said  Macallin  More, 

"  Charles  Stuart 's  landed  on  Eriska's  shore, 

And  Jacobites  are  arming  f — "  What !  indeed ! 

Arrived !  then  I  'm  no  more  an  invalid ; 

My  new-got  halbert  I  must  straight  employ 

In  battle." — "  As  you  please,  old  gallant  boy  : 

Your  gray  hairs  well  might  plead  excuse,  't  is  true, 

But  now  's  the  time  we  want  such  men  as  you." 

In  brief,  at  Innerara  Allan  staid, 

And  joined  the  banners  of  Argyle's  brigade. 

Meanwhile,  the  old  choleric  shepherd  of  Glencoe 

Spurned  all  advice,  and  girt  himself  to  go. 

What   was  7t   to  him   that  foes  would  poind  their 

fold, 

Their  lease,  their  Very  beds  beneath  them  sold  ! 
And  firmly  to  his  text  he  would  have  kept, 
Though  Ronald  argued  and  his  daughter  wept. 
But  'midst  the  impotence  of  tears  and  prayer, 
Chance   snatched  them  from  proscription  and  de- 
spair. 

Old  Norman's  blood  was  headward  wont  to  mount 
Too  rapid  from  his  heart's  impetuous  fount ; 
And  one  day,  whilst  the  German  rats  he  cursed, 
An  artery  in  his  wise  sensorium  burst. 
The  lancet  saved  him :  but  how  changed,  alas, 
From  him  who  fought  at  Killiecrankie's  pass  ! 
Tame  as  a  spaniel,  timid  as  a  child, 
He  muttered  incoherent  words  and  smiled ; 
He  wept  at  kindness,  rolled  a  vacant  eye, 
And  laughed  full  often  when  he  meant  to  cry 
Poor  man  !  whilst  in  this  lamentable  state, 
Came  Allan  back  one  morning  to  his  gate, 
Hale  and  unburdened  by  the  woes  of  eild, 
And  fresh  with  credit  from  Culloden's  field. 
'T  was  feared  at  first,  the  sight  of  him  might  touch 
The  old  Macdonald's  morbid  mind  too  much ; 


248  THE  PILGRIM   OF  GLENCOE. 

But  no  !  though  Norman  knew  him  and  disclosed 
Even  rallying  memory,  he  was  still  composed  ; 
Asked  all  particulars  of  the  fatal  fight, 
And  only  heaved  a  sigh  for  Charles's  flight : 
Then  said,  with  but  one  moment's  pride  of  air. 
It  might  not  have  been  so  Md  I  been  there  ! 
Few  days  elapsed  till  he  reposed  beneath 
His  gray  cairn,  on  the  wild  and  lonely  heath ; 
Son,  friends,  and  kindred  of  his  dust  took  leave, 
And  Allan,  with  the  crape  bound  round  his  sleeve. 

Old  Allan  now  hung  up  his  sergeant's  sword, 
And  sat,  a  guest  for  life,  at  Ronald's  board. 
He  waked  no  longer  at  the  barrack's  drum, 
Yet  still  you  'd  see,  when  peep  of  day  was  come, 
Th'  erect  tall  red-coat,  walking  pastures  round, 
Or  delving  with  his  spade  the  garden  ground. 
Of  cheerful  temper,  habits  strict  and  sage, 
He  reached,  enjoyed,  a  patriarchal  age — 
Loved  to  the  last  by  the  Macdonalds.     Near 
Their  house,  his  stone  was  placed  with  many  a  tear,. 
And  Ronald's  self,  in  stoic  virtue  brave, 
Scorned  not  to  weep  at  Allan  Campbell's  grave. 


NAPOLEON  AND  THE  BRITISH  BAILOR.       249 


NAPOLEON  AND  THE    BRITISH  SAILOR* 

I  LOVE  contemplating — apart, 

From  all  his  homicidal  glory, 
The  traits  that  soften  to  our  heart 

Napoleon's  story ! 

'T  was  when  his  banners  at  Boulogne 
Armed  in  our  island  every  freeman, 

His  navy  chanced  to  capture  one 
Poor  British  seaman. 

They  suffered  him — I  know  not  how, 
Unprisoned  on  the  shore  to  roam  ; 

And  aye  was  bent  his  longing  brow 
On  England's  home. 

His  eye,  methinks,  pursued  the  flight 
Of  birds  to  Britain  half-way  over  ; 

With  envy  they  could  reach  the  white, 
Dear  cliffs  of  Dover. 

A  stormy  midnight  watch,  he  thought, 

Than  this  sojourn  would  have  been  dearer, 

If  but  the  storm  his  vessel  brought 
To  England  nearer. 

At  last,  when  care  had  banished  sleep, 

He  saw  one  morning — dreaming — floating, 

An  empty  hogshead  from  the  deep 
Come  shoreward  floating ; 

*  This  anecdote  has  been  published  in  several  public  journals, 
both  French  and  British.  My  belief  in  its  authenticity  was  con- 
firmed by  an  Englishman  long  resident  at  Boulogne,  lately  telling 
me,  that  he  remembered  the  circumstance  to  have  been  generally 
talked  of  in  the  place. 
K* 


250       NAPOLEON  AND  THE  BRITISH  SAILOR. 

He  hid  it  in  a  cave,  and  wrought 

The  live-long  day  laborious ;  lurking 

Until  he  launched  a  tiny  boat 
By  mighty  working. 

Heaven  help  us  !  't  was  a  thing  beyond 
Description  wretched ;  such  a  wherry 

Perhaps  ne'er  ventured  on  a  pond, 
Or  crossed  a  ferry. 

For  ploughing  in  the  salt-sea  field, 

It  would  have  made  the  boldest  shudder ; 

Untarred,  uncompassed,  and  unkeeled, 
No  sail — no  rudder. 

From  neighb'ring  woods  he  interlaced 
His  sorry  skift'  with  wattled  willows ; 

And  thus  equipped  he  would  have  passed 
The  foaming  billows — 

But  Frenchmen  caught  him  on  the  beach, 
His  little  Argo  sorely  jeering  : 

Till  tidings  of  him  chanced  to  reach 
Napoleon's  hearing. 

With  folded  arms  Napoleon  stood, 
Serene  alike  in  peace  and  danger; 

And,  in  his  wonted  attitude, 
Addressed  the  stranger  : — 

"Rash  man,  that  would'st  yon  Channel  pass 
On  twigs  and  staves  so  rudely  fashioned; 

Thy  heart  with  some  sweet  British  lass 
Must  be  impassioned." 

"  I  have  no  sweetheart,"  said  the  lad ; 

"  But — absent  long  from  one  another-— 
Great  was  the  longing  that  I  had 

To  see  my  mother." 


BENLOMOND.  251 

:t  And  so  thou  shalt,"  Napoleon  said, 
"  Ye  Ve  both  my  favor  fairly  won ; 

A  noble  mother  must  have  bred 
So  brave  a  son." 

He  gave  the  tar  a  piece  of  gold, 

And,  with  a  flag  of  truce,  commanded 

He  should  be  shipped  to  England  Old, 
And  safely  landed. 

Our  sailor  oft  could  scantily  shift 
To  find  a  dinner,  plain  and  hearty ; 

But  never  changed  the  coin  and  gift 
Of  Bonaparte\ 


BENLOMOND. 

HADST  thou  a  genius  on  thy  peak, 
What  tales,  white-headed*  Ben, 

Could'st  thou  of  ancient  ages  speak, 
That  mock  th'  historian's  pen  ! 

Thy  long  duration  makes  our  lives 

Seem  but  so  many  hours ; 
And  likens,  to  the  bees'  frail  hives, 

Our  most  stupendous  towers. 

Temples  and  towers  thou  'st  seen  begun, 
New  creeds,  new  conquerors'  sway ; 

And,  like  their  shadows  in  the  sun, 
Hast  seen  them  swept  away. 

Thy  steadfast  summit,  heaven-allied 

(Unlike  life's  little  span), 
Looks  down  a  mentor  on  the  pride 

'Of  perishable  man. 


252  THE  CHILD  AND  HIND. 


THE  CHILD  AND  HIND. 

COME,  maids  and  matrons,  to  caress 
Wiesbaden's  gentle  hind ; 
And,  smiling,  deck  its  glossy  neck 
With  forest  flowers  entwined. 

Your  forest  flowers  are  fair  to  show, 
And  landscapes  to  enjoy; 
But  fairer  is  your  friendly  doe 
That  watched  the  sleeping  boy. 

'T  was  after  church — on  Ascension  day— 
When,  organs  ceased  to  sound, 
Wiesbaden's  people  crowded  gay 
The  deer-park's  pleasant  ground. 

There,  where  Elysian  meadows  smile> 
And  noble  trees  upshoot, 
The  wild  thyme  and  the  camomile 
Smell  sweetly  at  their  root ; 

The  aspen  quivers  nervously, 

The  oak  stands  stilly  bold — 

And  climbing  bindweed  hangs  on  liigh 

His  bells  of  beaten  gold.* 

Nor  stops  the  eye  till  mountains  shine 
That  bound  a  spacious  view, 
Beyond  the  lordly,  lovely  Rhine, 
In  visionary  blue. 

*  There  is  only  one  kind  of  bindweed  that  is  yellow,  an  J  rta»  ^e 
th«  flower  here  mentioned,  the  Panieulatue  Convolvulus. 


THE  CHILD  AND  HIND.  2f>3 

There,  monuments  of  ages  dark 
Awaken  thoughts  sublime ; 
Till,  swifter  than  the  steaming  bark, 
We  mount  the  stream  of  time. 

The  ivy  there  old  castles  shades 
That  speak  traditions  high 
Of  minstrels — tournaments — crusades, 
And  mail:clad  chivalry. 

Here  came  a  twelve  years'  married  pair — 
And  with  them  wandered  free 
Seven  sons  and  daughters,  blooming  fair, 
A  gladsome  sight  to  see. 

Their  Wilhelm,  little  innocent, 
The  youngest  of  the  seven, 
Was  beautiful  as  painters  paint 
The  cherubim  of  Heaven. 

By  turns  he  gave  his  hand,  so  dear, 
To  parent,  sister,  brother ; 
And  each,  that  he  was  safe  and  near, 
Confided  in  the  other. 

But  Wilhelm  loved  the  field-flowers  bright, 
With  love  beyond  all  measure ; 
And  culled  them  with  as  keen  deliglr 
As  misers  gather  treasure. 

Unnoticed,  he  contrived  to  glide 
Adown  a  greenwood  alley, 
By  lilies  lured — that  grew  beside 
A  streamlet  in  the  valley ; 

And  there,  where  under  beech  and  birch 
The  rivulet  meandered, 
He  strayed,  till  neither  shout  nor  search 
Could  track  where  he  had  wandered. 


254  THE  CHILD  AND  HIND. 

Still  louder,  with  increasing  dread, 
They  called  his  darling  name ; 
But 't  was  like  speaking  to  the  dead — 
An  echo  only  came. 

Hours  passed  till  evening's  beetle  roams, 
And  blackbird's  songs  begin ; 
Then  all  went  back  to  happy  homes, 
Save  Wilhelm's  kith  and  kin. 

The  night  came  on — all  others  slept 
Their  cares  away  till  morn ; 
But  sleepless,  all  night  watched  and  wept 
That  family  forlorn. 

Betimes  the  town-crier  had  been  sent 
With  loud  bell,  up  and  down ; 
And  told  th'  afflicting  accident 
Throughout  Wiesbaden's  town : 

The  father,  too,  ere  morning  smiled, 
Had  all  his  wealth  uncoffered ; 
And  to  the  wight  would  bring  his  child, 
A  thousand  crowns  had  offered. 

Dear  friends,  who  would  have  blushed  to  take 
That  guerdon  from  his  hand, 
Soon  joined  in  groups — for  pity's  sake, 
The  child-exploring  band. 

The  news  reached  Nassau's  Duke :  ere  earth 
Was  gladdened  by  the  lark, 
He  sent  a  hundred  soldiers  forth 
To  ransack  all  his  park. 

Their  side-arms  glittered  through  the  wood, 
With  bugle-horns  to  sound  ; 
Would  that  on  errand  half  so  good 
The  soldier  oft  were  found ! 


THE  CHILD  AND  HIND.  235 

But  though  they  roused  up  beast  and  bird 
From  many  a  nest  and  den, 
No  signal  of  success  was  heard 
From  all  the  hundred  men. 

A  second  morning's  light  expands, 
TJnfound  the  infant  fair ; 
And  Wilhelm's  household  wring  their  hands, 
Abandoned  to  despair. 

But,  haply,  a  poor  artisan 
Searched  ceaselessly,  till  he 
Found  safe  asleep  the  little  one 
Beneath  a  beechen  tree. 

His  hand  still  grasped  a  bunch  of  flowers ; 
And  (true,  though  wondrous)  near, 
To  sentry  his  reposing  hours, 
There  stood  a  female  deer — 

Who  dipped  her  horns  at  all  that  passed* 
The  spot  where  Wilhelm  lay  ; 
Till  force  was  had  to  hold  her  fast, 
And  bear  the  boy  away. 

Hail !  sacred  love  of  childhood — hail ! 
How  sweet  it  is  to  trace 
Thine  instincts  in  Creation's  scale, 
Even  'neath  the  human  race. 

To  this  poor  wanderer  of  the  wild 
Speech,  reason  were  unknown — 
And  yet  she  watched  a  sleeping  chile. 
As  if  it  were  her  own ; 

And  thou,  Wiesbaden's  artisan, 
Restorer  of  the  boy, 

*  The  female  deer  has  no  such  antlers  as  the  male,  and  some- 
times no  horns  at  all ;  but  I  have  observed  many  with  short  ones 
suckling  their  fawns. 


THE  CHILD  AND  HIND. 

Was  ever  welcomed  mortal  man 
With  such  a  burst  of  joy  ? 

The  father's  ecstasy — the  mother's 
Hysteric  bosom's  swell ; 
The  sisters'  sobs — the  shout  of  brothers, 
I  have  no  power  to  tell. 

The  working  man,  with  shoulders  broad, 
Took  blithely  to  his  wife 
The  thousand  crowns ;  a  pleasant  load, 
That  made  him  rich  for  life. 

And  Nassau's  Duke  the  favorite  took 
Into  his  deer-park's  centre, 
To  share  a  field  with  other  pets 
Where  deer-slayer  cannot  enter. 

There,  whilst  thou  cropp'st  thy  flowery  food, 
Each  hand  shall  pat  thee  kind ; 
And  man  shall  never  spill  thy  blood — 
Wiesbaden's  gentle  hind. 


THE  JILTED  NYMPH.  '257 


THE  JILTED  NYMPH. 

A   SONG, 
[To  the  Scotch  tune  of  "  Wooed  and  Married  and  a'."] 

I  'M  jilted,  forsaken,  outwitted ; 

Yet  think  not  I  '11  whimper  or  brawl — 
The  lass  is  alone  to  be  pitied 
•   Who  ne'er  has  been  courted  at  all : 
Never  by  great  or  small, 
Wooed  or  jilted  at  all ; 

Oh,  how  unhappy  's  the  lass 
Who  has  never  been  courted  at  all ! 

My  brother  called  out  the  dear  faithless, 

In  fits  I  was  ready  to  fall, 
Till  I  found  a  policeman  who,  scatheless, 

Swore  them  both  to  the  peace  at  Guildhall 
Seized  them,  seconds  and  all — 
Pistols,  powder  and  ball ; 

I  wished  him  to  die  my  devoted, 
But  not  in  a  duel  to  sprawl. 

What  though  at  my  heart  he  has  tilted, 

What  though  I  have  met  with  a  fall 
Better  be  courted  and  jilted, 

Than  never  be  courted  at  all. 
Wooed  and  jilted  and  all, 
Still  I  will  dance  at  the  ball ; 

And  waltz  and  quadrille 

With  light  heart  and  heel, 
With  proper  young  men,  and  tall. 

But  lately  I  Ve  met  with  a  suitor, 
Whose  heart  I  have  gotten  in  thralL 


253        THE  PORTRAIT  OF  A  FEMALE  CHILD. 

And  I  hope  soon  to  tell  you  in  future 
That  I  'm  wooed,  and  married,  and  all : 

Wooed  and  married  and  all, 

"What  greater  bliss  can  befall  ? 

And  you  all  shall  partake  of  my  bridal  cake. 

When  I  'm  wooed  and  married,  and  all. 


ON   GETTING   HOME   THE   PORTRAIT   OF 
A  FEMALE  CHILD,  SIX  YEARS  OLD. 

PAINTED   BY   EUGEXIO    LATILLA. 

TYPE  of  the  Cherubim  above, 
Come,  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love  ! 
Smile  from  my  wall,  dear  roguish  sprite, 
By  sunshine  and  by  candle-light ; 
For  both  look  sweetly  on  thy  traits : 
Or,  were  the  Lady  Moon  to  gaze, 
She  'd  welcome  thee  with  lustre  bland, 
Like  some  young  fay  from  Fairyland. 
Cast  in  simplicity's  own  mould, 
How  canst  thou  be  so  manifold 
In  sportively  distracting  charms  I 
Thy  lips — thine  eyes — thy  little  arms 
That  wrapt  thy  shoulders  and  thy  head 
In  homeliest  shawl  of  netted  thread, 
Brown  woollen  net- work  ;  yet  it  seeks 
Accordance  with  thy  lovely  cheeks, 
And  more  becomes  thy  beauty's  bloom 
Than  any  shawl  from  Cashmere's  loom. 
Thou  hast  not,  to  adorn  thee,  girl, 
Flower,  link  of  gold,  or  gem  or  pearl— 
I  would  not  let  a  ruby  speck 
The  peeping  whiteness  ot'  thy  neck : 


THE  PAEEOT.  25S> 

Thou  need'st  no  casket,  witching  elf, 
No  gawd — thy  toilet  is  thyself; 
Not  even  a  rose-bud  from  the  bower ; 
Thyself  a  magnet — gem  and  flower. 

My  arch  and  playful  little  creature, 
Thou  hast  a  mind  in  every  feature ; 
Thy  brow,  with  its  disparted  locks, 
Speaks  language  that  translation  mocks; 
Thy  lucid  eyes  so  beam  with  soul, 
They  on  the  canvas  seem  to  roll — 
Instructing  both  my  head  and  heart 
To  idolize  the  painter's  art. 
He  marshals  minds  to  Beauty's  feast — 
He  is  Humanity's  high  priest 
Who  proves,  by  heavenly  forms  on  earth, 
How  much  this  world  of  ours  is  worth. 
Inspire  me,  child,  with  visions  fair  ! 
For  children,  in  Creation,  are 
The  only  things  that  could  be  given 
Back,  and  alive — unchanged — to  Heaven. 


THE  PARROT. 

A  DOMESTIC    ANECDOTE. 

The  following  incident,  so  strongly  illustrating  the  power  of 
memory  and  association  in  the  lower  animals,  is  riot  a  fiction. 
I  heard  it  many  years  ago  in  the  Island  of  Mull,  from  the  fam- 
ily to  whom  the  bird  belonged. 

THE  deep  affections  of  the  breast, 
.That  Heaven  to  living  things  i 

Are  not  exclusively  possessed 
By  human  hearts. 


260  SONG  OF  THE  COLONISTS. 

A  parrot,  from  the  Spanish  Main, 

Full  young,  and  early  caged,  came  o'er 

With  bright  wings,  to  the  bleak  domain 
Of  Mulla's  shore. 

To  spicy  groves  where  he  had  won 
His  plumage  of  resplendent  hue, 

His  native  fruits,  and  skies,  and  sun, 
He  bade  adieu. 

For  these  he  changed  the  smoke  of  turf, 
A  heathery  land  and  -misty  sky, 

And  turned  on  rocks  and  raging  surf 
His  golden  eye. 

But,  petted,  in  our  climate  cold 
He  lived  and  chatted  many  a-  day  : 

Until  with  age,  from  green  and  gold, 
His  wings  grew  gray. 

At  last,  when  blind  and  seeming  dumb, 
He  scolded,  laughed,  and  spoke  no  more, 

A  Spanish  stranger  chanced  to  come 
To  Mulla's  shore ; 

He  hailed  the  bird  in  Spanish  speech. 
The  bird  in  Spanish  speech  replied. 

Flapped  round  his  ca'ge  with  joyous  screech, 
Dropt  down,  and  died. 


.SONG  OF  THE  COLONISTS  DEPARTING 
FOR  NEW  ZEALAND. 

STEER,  helmsman,  till  you  steer  our  way, 

By  stars  beyond  the  line ; 
We  go  to  found  a  realm,  one  day, 

Like  England's  self  to  shine. 


SONG  OF  THE  COLONISTS.  2tU 

CHORUS. 

C'heer  up — cheer  up — our  course  we'll  keep, 

With  dauntless  heart  and  hand  ; 
And  when  we've  ploughed  the  stormy  deep, 

We  '11  plough  a  smiling  land. 

A  land,  where  beauties  importune 

The  Briton  to  his  bowers, 
To  sow  but  plenteous  seeds,  and  prune 

Luxuriant  fruits  and  flowers. 

Chorus. — Cheer  up — cheer  up,  etc. 

There,  tracts  uneheered  by  human  words, 

Seclusion's  wildest  holds, 
Shall  hear  the  lowing  of  our  herds, 

And  tinkling  of  our  folds. 

Chorus. — Cheer  up— cheer  up,  etc. 

Like  rabies  set  in  gold,  shall  blush 

Our  vineyards  girt  with  corn ; 
And  wine,  and  oil,  and  gladness  gush 

From  Amalthea's  horn. 

Chorus. — Cheer  up — cheer  up,  etc. 

Britannia's  pride  is  in  our  hearts, 

Her  blood  is  in  our  veins — 
We  '11  girdle  earth  with  British  aits, 

Like  Ariel's  magic  chains. 

CHORUS. 

Cheer  up — cheer  up — our  course  we  '11  keep, 

With  dauntless  heart  and  hand ; 
And  when  we  've  ploughed  the  stormy  deep, 

We  '11  plough  a  smiling  land. 


262  MOONLIGHT. 


MOONLIGHT. 

THE  kiss  that  would  make  a  maid's  cheek  flush 
Wroth,  as  if  kissing  were  a  sin, 
Amidst  the  Argus  eyes  and  din 

And  tell-tale  glare  of  noon, 
Brings  but  a  murmur  and  a  blush, 
Beneath  the  modest  moon." 

Ye  days,  gone — never  to  come  back, 
When  love  returned  entranced  me  so. 
That  still  its  pictures  move  and  glow 
In  the  dark  chamber  of  my  heart ; 
Leave  not  my  memory's  future  track — 
I  will  not  let  you  part. 

'T  was  moonlight,  when  my  earliest  love 
First  on  my  bosom  dropt  her  head  ; 
A  moment  then  concentrated 
The  bliss  of  years,  as  if  the  spheres 
Their  course  had  faster  driven, 
And  earned,  Enoch-like  above, 
A  living  man  to  Heaven. 

'T  is  by  the  rolling  moon  we  measure 
The  date  between  our  nuptial  night 
And  that  blest  hour  which  brings  to  light 
The  pledge  of  faith — the  fruit  of  bliss  : 
When  we  impress  upon  the  treasure 
A  father's  earliest  kiss. 

The  Moon  's  the  Earth's  enamoured  bride  ; 
True  to  him  in  her  very  changes, 
To  other  stars  she  never  ranges : 

Though  crossed  by  him,  sometimes  she  dips 
Her  light,  in  short  offended  pride, 
And  faints  to  an  eclipse. 


SONG  ON  OUR  QUEEN.  263 

The  fairies  revel  by  her  sheen ; 
'T  is  only  when  the  Moon 's  above 
The  fire-fly  kindles  into  love, 

And  flashes  light  to  show  it : 
The  nightingale  salutes  her  Queen 
Of  Heaven,  her  heavenly  poet. 

Then  ye  that  love — by  moonlight  gloom 
Meet  at  ray  grave,  and  plight  regard. 
Oh !  could  I  be  the  Orphean  bard 

Of  whom  it  is  reported, 
That  nightingales  sung  o'er  his  tomb, 
Whilst  lovers  came  and  courted. 


SONG  ON  OUR  QUEEN. 

SET   TO   MUSIC   BY   CHARLES   NEATE,    ESQ. 

VICTORIA'S  sceptre  o'er  the  deep 

Has  touched,  and  broken  slavery's  chain ; 
Yet,  strange  magician  !  she  enslaves 

Our  hearts  within  her  own  domain. 

Her  spirit  is  devout,  and  burns 
With  thoughts  averse  to  bigotry  j 

Yet  she  herself,  the  idol,  turns 
Our  thoughts  into  idolatry. 


264  CORA  1.IXX. 


CORA  LINX,  OR  THE  FALLS  OF  THE 
CLYDE. 

WRITTEN    ON   REVISITING   IT    IN   1837. 

THE  time  I  saw  thee,  Cora,  last, 
'T  was  with  congenial  friends ; 
And  calmer  hours  of  pleasure  past — 
My  memory  seldom  sends. 

It  was  as  sweet  au  Autumn  day 
As  ever  shone  on  Clyde, 
And  Lanark's  orchards  $11  the  way 
Put  forth  their  golden  pride ; 

Even  hedges,  busked  in  bravery, 
Looked  rich  that  sunny  morn ; 
The  scarlet  hip  and  blackberry 
So  pranked  September's  thorn. 

In  Corn's  glen  the  calm  how  deep ! 
That  trees  on  loftiest  hill 
Like  statues  stood,  or  things  asleep, 
All  motionless  and  still. 

Tho  torrent  spoke,  as  if  his  noise 
Bade  earth  be  quiet  round, 
And  give  his  loud  and  lonely  voice 
A  more  commanding  sound. 

His  foam,  beneath  the  yellow  light 
Of  noon,  came  down  like  one 
Continuous  sheet  of  jaspers  bright, 
Broad  rolling  by  the  sun. 

Dear  Linn !  let  loftier  falling  floods 
Have  prouder  names  than  thine  ; 
And  king  of  all,  enthroned  in^woods, 
Let  Niagara  shine. 


CHAUCER  AND  WINDSOR. 

Barbarian,  let  him  shake  his  coasts 
With  reeking  thunders  far, 
Extended  like  th'  array  of  hosts 
In  broad,  embattled  war ! 

His  voice  appalls  the  wilderness : 
Approaching  thine,  we  feel 
A  solemn,  deep  melodiousness, 
That  needs  no  louder  peal. 

« 

More  fury  would  but  disenchant 
Thy  dream-inspiring  din ; 
Be  thou  the  Scottish  Muse's  haunt, 
Romantic  Cora  Linn. 


CHAUCER  AND  WINDSOR. 

LONG  shalt  thou  flourish,  Windsor  !  bodying  forth 
Chivalric  times,  and  long  shall  live  around 
Thy  Castle — the  old  oaks  of  British  birth, 
Whose  gnarled  roots,  tenacious  and  profound, 
As  with  a  lion's  talons  grasp  the  ground. 
But  should  thy  towers  in  ivied  ruin  rot, 
There's  one,  thine  inmate  once,   whose  strain  re- 
nowned 

Would  interdict  thy  name  to  be  forgot ; 
For  Chaucer  loved  thy  bowers  and  trode  this  very 

spot. 

Chaucer!  our  Helicon's  first  fountain-stream, 
Our  morning  star  of  song — that  led  the  way 
To  welcome  the  long-after  coming  beam 
Of  Spenser's  light  and  Shakspeare's  perfect  day. 
Old  England's  fathers  live  in  Chaucer's  lay, 
As  if  they  ne'er  had  died.     He  grouped  and  drew 
Their  likeness  with  a  spirit  of  life  so  gay, 
That  still  they  live  and  breathe  in  Fancy's  view, 
Fresh  Jbeings  fraught  with  truth's  imperishable  hue. 


266  LINES. 


LINES 

SUGGESTED   BY   THE   STATUE  OP  ARXOLD  VOX  VTIXK- 
ELRIED,*  STAXZ-UXDERWALDKX. 

IXSPIRING  and  romantic  Switzers'  land, 
Though  marked  with  majesty  by  Nature's  hand, 
What  charm  ennobles  most  thy  landscape's  face  ? 
Th'  heroic  memory  of  thy  native  race — 
Who  forced  tyrannic  hosts  to  bleed  or  flee, 
And  made  their  rocks  the  ramparts  of  the  free  ; 
Their  fastnesses  rolled  back  th'  invading  tide 
Of    conquest,   and  their   mountains   taught   them 

pride. 

Hence  they  have  patriot  names — in  fancy's  eye, 
Bright  as  their  glaciers  glittering  in  the  sky  • 
Patriots  who  make  the  pageantries  of  kings 
Like  shadows  seem  and  unsubstantial  things. 
Their  guiltless  glory  mocks  oblivion's  rust, 
Imperishable,  for  their  cause  was  just. 

Heroes  of  old  !  to  whom  the  Nine  have  strung 
Their  lyres,  and  spirit-stirring  anthems  sung ; 
Heroes  of  chivalry  !  whose  banners  grace 
The  aisles  of  many  a  consecrated  place, 
Confess  how  few  of  you  can  match  in  fame 
The  martyr  Winkelried's  immortal  name  ! 

*  For  an  account  of  this  patriotic  Swiss  and  his  heroic  death  at 
the  battle  of  Seinpach.  see  Dr.  Seattle's  "Switzerland  Illustrated." 
vol.  ii.  pp.  111-115. 


MY  NEW  CHILD-SWEETHEART.  267 


TO   THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  NORTH 
AMERICA. 

UNITED  STATES,  your  banner  wears 
Two  emblems — one  of  fame ; 

Alas,  the  other  that  it  bears 
Reminds  us  of  your  shame. 

Your  standard's  .constellation  types 

White  freedom  by  its  stars ; 
But  what  7s  the  meaning  of  the  stripes  ? 

They  mean  your  negroes'  scars. 


LINES  ON  MY  NEW  CHILD-SWEET- 
HEART. 

I  HOLD  it  a  religious  duty 

To  love  and  worship  children's  beauty ; 

They  've  least  the  taint  of  earthly  clod, 

They  're  freshest  from  the  hand  of  God ; 

With  heavenly  looks  they  make  us  sure 

The  heaven  that  made  them  must  be  pure. 

We  love  them  not  in  earthly  fashion, 

But  with  a  beatific  passion. 

I  chanced  to,  yesterday,  behold 

A  maiden  child  of  beauty's  mould ; 

'T  was  near,  more  sacred  was  the  scene, 

The  palace  of  our  patriot  Queen. 

The  little  charmer  to  my  view 

Was  sculpture  brought  to  life  anew. 

Her  eyes  had  a  poetic  glow, 

Her  pouting  mouth  was  Cupid's  bow : 

And  through  her  frock  I  could  descry 

Her  neck  and  shoulders'  symmetry. 


268  THE  LAUNCH  OF  A  FIRST-RATE. 

JT  was  obvious,  from  her  walk  and  gait 
Her  limbs  were  beautifully  straight ; 
I  stopped  th'  enchantress,  and  was  told, 
Though  tall,  she  was  but  four  years  old. 
Her  guide  so  grave  an  aspect  wore 
I  could  not  ask  a  question  more ; 
But  followed  her.     The  little  one 
Threw  backward  ever  and  anon 
Her  lovely  neck,  as  if  to  say, 
"  I  know  you  love  me,  Mister  Grey ;" 
For  by  its  instinct  childhood's  eye 
Is  shrewd  in  physiognomy ; 
They  will  distinguish  fawning  art 
From  sterling  fondness  of  the  heart. 

And  so  she  flirted,  like  a  true 
Good  woman,  till  we  bade  adieu. 
'T  was  then  I  with  regret  grew  wild, 
Oh,  beauteous,  interesting  child ! 
Why  asked  I  not  thy  home  and  name  ? 
My  courage  failed  me — more 's  the  shame. 
But  where  abides  this  jewel  rare  f 
Oh,  ye  that  own  her,  tell  me  where ! 
For  sad  it  makes  my  heart  and  sore 
To  think  I  ne'er  mav  meet  her  more. 


THE  LAUNCH  OF  A  FIRST-KATE. 

•WRITTEN    ON    WITNESSING    THK    SPECTACLE. 

ENGLAND  hails  thee  with  emotion, 

Mightiest  child  of  naval  art, 
Heaven  resounds  thy  welcome  !  Ocean 

Takes  thee  smiling  to  his  heart. 

Giant  oaks  of  bold  expansion 
O'er  seven  hundred  acres  fell, 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

All  to  build  thy  noble  mansion, 

Where  our  hearts  of  oak  shall  dwell. 

'Midst  those  trees  the  wild  deer  bounded, 
Ages  long  ere  we  were  born, 

And  our  great-grandfathers  sounded 
Many  a  jovial  hunting-horn. 

Oaks  that  living  did  inherit 

Grandeur  from  our  earth  and  sky, 

Still  robust,  the  native  spirit 
In  your  timbers  shall  not  die. 

Ship  to  shine  in  martial  story, 

Thou  shalt  cleave  the  ocean's  path, 

Freighted  with  Britannia's  glory 
And  the  thunders  of  her  wrath. 

Foes  shall  crowd  their  sails  and  fly  ilu-o, 
Threatening  havoc  to  their  deck, 

When  afar  they  first  descry  thee, 
Like  the  coming  whirlwind's  speck. 

Gallant  bark !  thy  pomp  and  beauty 
Storm  or  battle  ne'er  shall  blast, 

Whilst  our  tare  in  pride  and  duty 
Nail  thy  colors  to  the  mast. 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY, 

"VTHO    ASKED   ME    TO    WRITE    SOMETHING     ORIGINAL 
FOR   HER   ALBUM. 

AN  original  something,  fair  maid,  you  would  win  me 
To  write — but  how  shall  I  begin  ? 
For  I  fear  I  have  nothing  original  in  me — 
Excepting  Original  sin. 


270  EPISTLE  FROM  ALGIERS. 


HORACE   SMITH. 

DEAR  HORACE  !  be  melted  to  tears, 
For  I  'm  melting  with  heat  as  I  rhyme ; 

Though  the  name  of  the  place  is  All-jeers, 
7T  is  no  joke  to  fall  in  with  its  clime. 

With  a  shaver*  from  France  who  came  o'er, 

To  an  African  inn  I  ascend ; 
I  am  cast  on  a  barbarous  shore, 

Where  a  barber  alone  is  my  friend. 

Do  you  ask  me  the  sights  and  the  news 

Of  this  wonderful  city  to  sing  I 
Alas !  my  hotel  has  its  mews, 

But  no  muse  of  the  Helicon's  spring. 

My  windows  afford  me  the  sight 

Of  a  people  all  diverse  in  hue ; 
They  are  black,  yellow,  olive,  and  white, 

Whilst  I  in  my  sorrow  look  blue. 

Here  are  groups  for  the  painter  to  take, 
Whose  figures  jocosely  combine, — 

The  Arab  disguised  in  his  haik,t 

And  the  Frenchman  disguised  in  his  wine. 

*  On  board  the  vessel  from  Marseillfs  to  Algiers  I  met  with  a  fel- 
low passenger  whom  I  supposed  to  be  a  ph3"sician  from  his  dress 
and  manners,  and  the  attention  which  he  paid  me  to  alleviate  the 
sufferings  of  my  sea-sickness.  He  turned  out  to  be  a  perruquier  and 
barber  in  Algeria— but  his  vocation  did  not  lower  him  in  my  estima- 
tion— for  he  continued  his  attentions  until  he  passed  my  baggage 
through  the  customs,  and  helped  me,  when  half  dead  with  exhaus- 
tion, to  the  best  hotel. 

t  A  mautle  worn  by  the  natives. 


EPISTLE  FROM  ALGIERS.  271 

In  his  breeches  of  petticoat  size 

You  may  say,  as  the  Mussulman  goes, 

That  his  garb  is  a  fair  compromise 

'Twixt  a  kilt  and  a  pair  of  small-clothes. 

The  Mooresses,  shrouded  in  white, 

Save  two  holes  for  their  eyes  to  give  room, 

Seem  like  corpses  in  sport  or  in  spite 

That  have  slyly  whipped  out  of  their  tomb. 

The  old  Jewish  dames  make  me  sick : 

If  I  were  the  devil — I  declare 
Such  hags  should  not  mount  a  broom-stick 

In  my  service  to  ride  through  the  air. 

But  hipped  and  undined  as  I  am, 
My  hippogrifFs  course  I  must  rein — 

For  the  pain  of  my  thirst  is  no  sham, 

Though  I  'm  bawling  aloud  for  champagne. 

Dinner  's  brought ;  but  their  wines  have  no  pith — • 

They  are  flat  as  the  statutes  at  law ; 
And  for  all  that  they  bring  me,  dear  Smith  ! 

Would  a  glass  of  brown  stout  they  could  draw .' 

O'er  each  French  trashy  dish  as  I  bend, 

My  heart  feels  a  patriot's  grief ! 
And  the  round  tears,  O  England  !  descend 

When  I  think  on  a  round  of  thy  beef. 

Yes,  my  soul  sentimentally  craves 

British  beer. — Hail,  Britannia,  hail ! 
To  thy  flag  on  the  foam  of  the  waves, 

And  the  foam  on  thy  flagons  of  ale. 

Yet  I  own,  in  this  hour  of  my  drought, 
A  dessert  has  most  welcomely  come  ; 

Here  are  peaches  that  melt  in  the  mouth, 
And  grapes  blue  and  big  as  a  plum.  . 


272  FRAGMENT  OF  AN  ORATORIO. 

There  are  melons,  too,  luscious  and  great, 
But  the  slices  I  eat  shall  be  few, 

For  from  melons  incautiously  eat 
Melancholic  effects  may  ensue. 

Horrid  pun  !  you  '11  exclaim ;  but  be  calm, 

Tin* ugh  my  letter  bears  date,  as  you  view, 
•Prom  the  land  of  the  date-bearing  palm, 
I  will  palm  no  more  puns  upon  you. 


FRAGMENT  OF  AN  ORATORIO. 

FROM   THE   BOOK   OF  JOB. 

CRUSHED  by  misfortune's  yoke, 
Job  lamentably  spoke — 

"  My  boundless  curse  be  on 
The  day  that  I  was  born  ; 
Quenched  be  the  star  that  shone 
Upon  my  natal  morn. 
In  the  grave  I  long 
To  shroud  my  breast ; 
Where  the  wicked  cease  to  wrong, 
*And  the  weary  are  at  rest." 
Then  Eliphaz  rebuked  his  wild  despair : 

"  What  Heaven  ordains,  't  is  meet  that  man 

should  bear. 

Lately,  at  midnight  drear, 
A  vision  shook  my  bones  with  fear; 
A  spirit  passed  before  my  face, 
And  yet  its  form  I  could  not  trace  ; 
It  stopped — it  stood — it  chilled  my  blood, 
The  hair  upon  my  flesh  uprose 
With  freezing  dread ! 
Deep  silence  reigned,  and,  at  its  close, 


FRAGMENT  OF  AN  ORATORIO 

I  heard  a  voice  that  said — 

'  Shall  mortal  man  be  more  pure  and  just 

Than  God,  who  made  him  from  the  dust  ? 

Hast  thou  not  learnt  of  old,  how  fleet 

Is  the  triumph  of  the  hypocrite ; 

How  soon  the  wreath  of  joy  grows  wan 

On  the  brow  of  the  ungodly  man  ? 

By  the  fire  of  his  conscience  he  perisheth 

In  an  unblown  flame : 

The  Earth  demands  his  death, 

And  the  Heavens  reveal  his  shame/" 

JOB. 

Is  this  your  consolation  ? 

Is  it  thus  that  ye  condole 

With  the  depth  of  my  desolation, 

And  the  anguish  of  my  soul  ? 

But  I  will  not  cease  to  wail 

The  bitterness  of  my  bale. — 

Man  that  is  born  of  woman, 

Short  and  evil  is  his  hour ; 

He  fleeteth  like  a  shadow, 

He  fadeth  like  a  flower. 

My  days  are  passed — my  hope  and  trust 

Is  but  to  moulder  in  the  dust. 

CHORUS. 

Bow,  mortal,  bow,  before  thy  God, 

Nor  murmur  at  his  chastening  rod ; 

Fragile  being  of  earthly  clay, 

Think  on  God's  eternal  sway  ! 

Hark !  from  the  whirlwind  forth 

Thy  Maker  speaks — "Thou  child  of  earth, 

Where  wert  thou  when  I  laid 

Creation's  comer-stone  ? 

When  the  sons  of  God  rejoicing  made, 

And  the  morning  stars  together  sang  and 

shone  ? 
Hadst  thou  power  to  bid  above 


574  TO  SIY  NIECE,  MAKY  CAMPBELL. 

Heaven's  constellations  glow; 

Or  shape  the  forms  that  live  and  move 

On  Nature's  face  below? 

Hast  thou  given  the  horse  his  strength  and 

pride  ? 

He  paws  the  valley,  with  nostril  wide, 
He  smells  far  off  the  battle; 
He  neighs  at  the  trumpet's  sound — 
And  his  speed  devours  the  ground, 
As  he  sweeps  to  where  the  quivers  rattle, 
And  the  spear  and  shield  shine  bright, 
'Midst  the  shouting  of  the  captains 
And  the  thunder  of  the  fight. 


TO  MY  NIECE,  MARY  CAMPBELL. 

OUR  friendship  's  not  a  stream  to  dry, 

Or  stop  with  angry  jar; 
A  life-long  planet  in  our  sky — 

No  meteor-shooting  star. 

Thy  playfulness  and  pleasant  ways 
(Shall  cheer  my  wintry  track, 

And  give  my  old  declining  days 
A  second  summer  back  ! 

Proud  honesty  protects  our  lot 

No  dun  infests  our  bowers ; 
Wealth's  golden  lamps  illumine  not 

Brows  more  content  than  ours. 

To  think,  too,  thy  remembrance  fond 

May  love  me  after  death, 
Gives  fancied  happiness  beyond 

Mv  lease  of  living  breath. 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  NORTH.       275 

Meanwhile  thine  intellects  presage 

A  life-time  rich  in  truth, 
And  make  me  feel  the  advance  of  age 

Retarded  by  thy  youth ! 

Good  night !  propitious  dreams  betide 

Thy  sleep — awaken  gay, 
And  we  will  make  to-morrow  glide 

As  cheerful  as  to-day  ! 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  NORTH. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

YET,  ere  Oblivion  shade  each  fairy  scene, 

Ere  capes  and  cliffs  and  waters  intervene, 

Ere  distant  walks  my  pilgrim  feet  explore, 

By  Elbe's  slow  wanderings,  and  the  Danish  shore, — - 

Still  to  my  country  turns  my  partial  view, 

That  seems  the  dearest  at  the  last  adieu  ! 

Ye  lawns,  and  grottos  of  the  clustered  plain ; 
Ye  mountain-walks,  Edina's  green  domain ; 
Haunts  of  my  youth,  where,  oft,  by  Fancy  drawn 
At  vermeil  eve,  still  noon,  or  shady  dawn, 
My  soul,  secluded  from  the  deafening  throng, 
Has  wooed  the  bosom-prompted  power  of  song : 
And  thou,  my  loved  abode, — romantic  ground, 
With  ancient  towers  and  spiry  summits  crowned  !— 
Home  of  the  polished  arts  and  liberal  mind, 
By  truth  and  taste  enlightened  and  refined ! — 
Thou  scene  of  Scotland's  glory,  now  decayed, 
Where  once  her  Senate*  and  her  Sceptre  swayed, — 
As  round  thy  mouldered  monuments  of  fame 
Tradition  points  an  emblem  and  a  name, 


276  THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  NORTH. 

Lo !  what  a  group  Imagination  brings 
Of  starred  barons,  and  of  thronfed  kings ! 
Departed  days  in  bright  succession  start, 
And  all  the  patriot  kindles  in  my  heart ! 


Even  musing  here,  beside  the  Druid-stone, 
Where  British  Arthur  built  his  airy  throne, 
Far  as  my  sight  can  travel  o'er  the  scene, 
From  Lomond's  height  to  Roslin's  lovely  green .- 
On  every  moor,  wild  wood,  and  mountain-side. 
From  Forth's  fair  windings  to  the  ocean  tide, —  . 
On  each,  the  legendary  loves  to  tell 
Where  chiefs  encountered  and  the  mighty  fell : 
Each  war-worn  turret  on  the  distant  shore 
Speaks  like  a  herald  of  the  feats  of  yore  ; 
And  though  the  shades  of  dark  Oblivion  frown 
On  sacred  scenes  and  deeds  of  high  renown. 
Yet  still  some  oral  tale — some  chanted  rhyme — 
Shall  mark  the  spot,  and  teach  succeeding  time 
How  oft  our  fathers — to  their  country  true — 
The  glorious  sword  of  Independence  drew ; 
How  well  their  plaided  clans,  in  battle  tried. 
Impenetrably  stood,  or  greatly  died  ; 
How  long  the  genius  of  their  rights  delayed, 
How  sternly  guarded,  and  how  late  betrayed. 
Fair  fields  of  Roslin — memorable  name ! 
Attest  my  words,  and  speak  my  country's  fame  ' 
Soft  as  yon  mantling  haze  of  distance  broods 
Around  thy  waterfalls  and  aged  woods, 
The  south  sun  checkers  all  thy  birchen  glade 
With  glimmering  lights  and  deep-retiring  shade 
Fresh  coverts  of  the  dale,  so  dear  to  tread. 
When  morn's  wild  blackbird  carols  overhead  ; 
Or,  when  the  sunflower  shuts  her  bosom  fair, 
And  scented  berries  breathe  delicious  air. 
Dear  is  thy  pastoral  haunt  to  him  that  woos 
Romantic  Nature — Silence — and  the  Muse  ! 
But  dearer  still,  when  that  returning  time 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  NORTH.       27 

Of  fruits  and  flowers — the  year's  Elysian  prime — 

Invites,  one  simple  festival  to  crown, 

Young  social  wanderers  from  the  sultry  town  ! 

Ah,  me! — no  sumptuous  revelry  to  share, 
The  cheerful  bosom  asks,  or  envies  there ; 
Nor  sighs  for  gorgeous  splendors,  such  as  wait 
On  feasts  of  wealth,  and  riots  of  the  great. 
Far  sweeter  scenes,  the  live-long  summer  day, 
On  these  wild  walks  when  loved  companions  stray, 
But  lost  in  joys  of  more  enchanting  flow 
Than  tasteless  art  or  luxury  bestow. 
Here,  in  auspicious  moments,  to  impart 
The  first  fonjl  breathings  of  a  proffered  heart. 
Shall  favored  Love  repair,  and  smiling  Youth 
To  gentle  Beauty  vow  the  vows  of  truth. 

Fair  mom  ascends,  and  sunny  June  has  shed 
Ambrosial  odors  o'er  the  garden  bed  ; 
And  wild  bees  seek  the  cherry's  sweet  perfume, 
Or  cluster  round  the  full-blown  apple-bloom. 


These  fragments  are  portions  of  a  poem  which  Campbell 
planned  soon  after  the  publication  of  the  Pleasures  of  Hope. 
Edinburgh  was  to  be  the  scene  of  the  poem.  The  Poet  intended 
to  celebrate  the  glory  and  independence  of  Scotland,  as  recorded 
in  history  and  tradition ;  to  display  in  a  series  of  martial  epi- 
sodes, the  characters  and  the  achievements  of  her  great  men  ; 
and  to  rekindle  in  the  national  mind  her  ancient  spirit  of  free- 
dom. The  poem  was  never  completed. 


278  HYMN. 


HYMN. 

Jordan  hushed  his  waters  still, 
And  silence  slept  on  Zion  hill, — 
When  Salem's  shepherds,  through  the  night,, 
Watched  o'er  their  flocks  by  starry  light, — 
Hark  !  from  the  midnight  hills  around, 
A  voice,  of  more  than  mortal  sound, 
In  distant  hallelujahs  stole, 
Wild  murmuring,  on  the  raptured  soul. 
Then  swift,  to  every  startled  eye, 
New  streams  of  glory  gild  the  sky ; 
Heaven  bursts  her  azure  gates,  to  pour 
Her  spirits  to  the  midnight  hour. 
On  wheels  of  light,  and  wings  of  flame, 
The  glorious  hosts  to  Zion  came. 
High  Heaven  with  sounds  of  triumph  rung, 
And  thus  they  smote  their  harps  and  sung : 

0  Zion  !  lift  thy  raptured  eye, 
The  long-expected  hour  is  nigh — 
The  joys  of  Nature  rise  again — 
The  Prince  of  Salem  comes  to  reign ! 

See,  Mercy,  from  her  golden  urn, 
Pours  a  glad  stream  to  them  that  mourn ; 
Behold,  she  binds,  with  tender  care, 
The  bleeding  bosom  of  despair. — 

HE  comes— HE  cheers  the  trembling  heart  — 
Night  and  her  spectres  pale  depart  : 
Again  the  day-star  gilds  the  gloom — 
Again  the  bowers  of  Eden  bloom  ! 

0,  Zion  !  lift  thy  raptured  eye, 
The  long-expected  hour  is  nigh — 
The  joys  of  Nature  rise  again — 
The  Prince  of  Salem  conies  to  reign  ! 

K94. 


CHORUS  FROM  THE  CHOEPHORGE.     279 


CHORUS   FROM  THE  CHOEPHORCE  OF 
AESCHYLUS. 

SENT  from  the  Mourners'  solitary  dome, 
I  lead  the  solemn,  long  parade  of  woe ; 
To  lull  the  sleepless  spirit  of  the  tomb, 
And  hail  the  mighty  Dead,  that  rest  below. 

Hail,  sacred  Dead  !  a  maiden  weeps  for  you ; 
For  you  I  wake  the  madness  of  despair  ! 
The  deep-struck  wounds  of  woe  my  cheeks  bedew; 
I  feed  my  bosom  with  eternal  care. 

Lo !  where  the  robes,  that  once  my  bosom  bound, 
Rent  by  despair,  fly  waving  in  the  wind ; 
The  ceaseless  strokes  of  anguish  rudely  sound, 
As  sorrow  heaves  tumultuous  in  my  mind. 

Heard  ye  wild  Horror's  hair-erecting  scream 
Reecho,  dismal,  from  his  distant  cell  ? 
Heard  ye  the  Spirit  of  the  mighty  dream 
Shriek,  to  the  solemn  hour,  a  long-resounding  yell? 

The  females  heard  him,  in  the  haunted  hall, 
As  shrill  his  accents  smote  the  slumbering  ear-~ 
Prophetic  accents — when  the  proud  must  fall — 
And  wrapt  in  sounds  of  agonizing  fear. 

Lo  !  Wisdom's  lips  your  nightly  dreams  divine, 
And  read  the  visions  of  impending  woe  ; 
Blood  calls  for  vengeance  on  a  lawless  Line; 
The  murdered  spirit  shrieks  in  wrath  below. 

Vain  are  the  gifts  the  silent  mourners  send : 
Vain  Music's  fall,  to  soothe  the  sullen  Dead; 
The  dark  collected  clouds  of  Death  impend; — 
&hall  Ruin  spare  thy  long-devoted  head? 


10     CHORUS  FROM  THE  CHOEPHOR03. 

O,  sacred  dust !     O,  Spirit,  lingering  nigh, 
I  bear  the  gifts  of  yonder  guilty  throne ! 
My  trembling  lips  the  unhallowed  strain  deny  j 
Shall  mortal  man  for  mortal  blood  atone  f 

Mansions  of  Grief !  a  long-impending  doom 
O'erhangs  the  dark  dominions  where  ye  reign 
A  sunless  horror,  of  unfathomed  gloom, 
Shall  shroud  your  glory — for  a  Master  slain. 

The  sceptred  pomp,  ungovernably  grand, 
Untamed  ia  battle,  in  the  fields  of  yore ; 
That  martial  glory,  blazoned  o'er  the  land, 
Is  fallen — nor  bids  the  prostrate  world  adore ! 

Yet,  sure,  to  bask  in  Glory's  golden  day, 

Or  on  the  lap  of  Pleasure  to  repose, 

Unvexed  to  roam  on  Life's  bewildered  way, 

Is  more  than  Earth — is  more  than  Heaven  bestows. 

For  Justice,  oft,  with  ready  bent  arraigns, 
And  Guilt  hath  oft  deferred  his  deadly  doom — 
Lurked  in  the  twilight's  slow  suspicious  pains, 
Or  wrapped  his  deeds  in  Night's  eternal  gloom. 

1794. 


ELEGY.  261 

ELEGY. 

WRITTEN   IN  MULL. 

THE  tempest  blackens  on  the  dusky  moor, 

And  billows  lash  the  long-resounding  shore ; 

In  pensive  mood  I  roam  the  desert  ground, 

And  vainly  sigh  for  scenes  no  longer  found. 

O,  whither  fled  the  pleasurable  hours 

That  chased  each  care,  and  fired  the  Muse's  powers ; 

The  classic  haunts  of  youth,  forever  gay, 

Where  mirth  and  friendship  cheered  the   close  of 

day; 

The  well-known  valleys,  where  I  wont  to  roam ; 
The  native  sports,  the  nameless  joys  of  home? 

Far  different  scenes  allure  my  wondering  eye  : — 
The  white  wave  foaming  to  the  distant  sky ; 
The  cloudy  heavens,  unblest  by  summer's  smile ; 
The  sounding  storm,  that  sweeps  the  rugged  isle ; 
The  chill,  bleak  summit  of  eternal  gnow ; 
The  wide,  wild  glen — the  pathless  plains  below ; 
The  dark  blue  rocks,  in  barren  grandeur  piled  ; 
The  cuckoo,  sighing  to  the  pensive  wild  ! 

Far  different  these  from  all  that  charmed  before 
The  grassy  banks  of  Clutha's  winding  shore  ; 
Her  sloping  vales,  with  waving  forests  lined, 
Her  smooth,  blue  lakes,  unruffled  by  the  wind. 

Hail,  happy  Clutha  !  glad  shall  I  survey 
Thy  gilded  turrets  from  the  distant  way ! 
Thy  sight  shall  cheer  the  weary  traveller's  toil, 
And  joy  shall  hail  me  to  my  native  soil. 

1795. 


282  ON  THE  GLASGOW  VOLUNTEERS. 


ON  THE   GLASGOW  VOLUNTEERS. 

HARK — hark  !  the  fife's  shrill  notes  arise  ! 

And  ardor  beats  the  martial  drum  ; 
And  broad  the  silken  banner  flies, 

"Where  Clutha's  native  squadrons  come ! 

Where  spreads  the  green  extended  plain, 
By  music's  solemn  marches  trod, 

Thick-glancing1  bayonets  marked  the  train 
That  beat  the  meadow's  grassy  sod. 

These  are  no  hireling  sons  of  war ! 

No  jealous  tyrant's  grimly  band, 
The  wish  of  freedom  to  debar, 

Or  scourge  a  despot's  injured  land ! 

Naught  but  the  patriotic  view 

Of  free-born  valor  ever  fired, 
To  baffle  Gallia's  boastful  crew, 

The  soul  of  northern  breast  inspired. 

'T  was  thus,  on  Tiber's  sunny  banks, 
What  time  the  Volscian  ravaged  nigh, 

To  mark  afar  her  glittering  ranks, 

Home's  towering  eagle  shone  on  lii<rl:, 

O  O  C1 

There,  toil  athletic  on  the  field 
In  mock  array  portrayed  alarm, 

And  taught  the  massy  sword  to  wield, 
And  braced  the  nerve  of  Roman  arm. 


1793. 


ON  A  RURAL  BEAUTY  IN  MULL. 


ON  A  RURAL  BEAUTY  IX  MULL. 

THE  wandering  swain,  w.ith  fond  delight, 

Would  view  the  daisy  smile 
On  Pambemara's  desert  height, 

Or  Lomond's  heathy  pile. 

So,  fixed  in  rapture  and  surprise, 

I  gazed  across  the  plain, 
When  young  Maria  met  my  eyes 

Amid  the  reaper-train. 

Methought,  shall,  beauty  such  as  this, 

Meek,  modest,  and  refined, 
On  Thule's  shore  be  doomed  to  bless 

The  shepherd  or  the  hind  ? 

From  yon  bleak  mountain's  barren  side 

That  gentle  form  convey, 
And  in  Golconda's  sparkling  pride 

The  shepherdess  array. 

In  studious  Fashion's  proudest  cost 

Let  artful  Beauty  shine ; 
The  pride  of  art  could  never  boast 

A  faker  form  than  thine. 

Yet,  simple  beauty,  never  sigh 

To  share  a  prouder  lot ; 
Nor,  caught  by  grandeur,  seek  to  fly 

The  solitary  cot ! 


The  concluding  stanza  is  illegible  in  the  manuscript. 


2*4        VERSES  ON  THE  QUEEN  OF  FRANCE. 


VERSES  ON  THE  QUEEN  OF  FRANCE. 

BEHOLD  !  where  Gallia's  captive  Queen, 
"With  steady  eye,  and  look  serene, 
In  life's  last  awful — awful  scene, 
Slow  leaves  her  sad  captivity ! 

Hark  !  the  shrill  horn,  that  rends  the  sky, 
Bespeaks  the  ready  murder  nigh ; 
The  long  parade  of  death  I  spy, 
And  leave  my  lone  captivity  ! 

Farewell,  ye  mansions  of  despair ! 
Scenes  of  my  sad  sequestered  care ; 
The  balm  of  bleeding  woe  is  near, — 
Adieu,  my  lone  captivity ! 

To  purer  mansions  in  the  sky 
Fair  Hope  directs  my  grief- worn  eye  ; 
Where  Sorrow's  child  no  more  shall  sigh, 
Amid  her  lone  captivity ! 

Adieu,  ye  babes,  whose  infant  bloom, 
Beneath  Oppression's  lawless  doom, 
Pines  in  the  solitary  gloom 
Of  undeserved  captivity  ! 

O,  Power  benign,  that  rul'st  on  liigl 
Cast  down,  cast  down  a  pitying  eye ! 
Shed  consolation  from  the  sky, 
To  soothe  their  sad  captivity  ! 

Now,  virtue's  sure  reward  to  prove, 
I  seek  emp'real  realms  above, 
To  meet  my  long-departed  love. — 
Adieu,  mv  lone  Ciiptivitv  ! 

1793. 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  JEPHTHES.  265 


CHORUS   FROM   THE    TRAGEDY   ()] 
JEPHTHES. 

GLASSY  Jordan,  smooth  meandering 

Jacob's  flowery  meads  between  ; 
Lo  !  thy  waters  gently  wandering 

Lave  the  valleys  rich  and  green  ! 
AY  hen  the  winter,  keenly  showering, 

Strips  fair  Salem 's  shade, 
There  thy  current,  broader  pouring, 

Lingers  in  the  leafless  glade. 
When,  O  when,  shall  light,  returning, 

Chase  the  melancholy  gloom, 
And  the  golden  star  of  morning 

Yonder  sable  vault  illume  ? 
AY  lien  shall  Freedom,  holy  charmer, 

Cheer  my  long-benighted  soul  ? 
AYhen  shall  Israel,  fierce  in  armor, 

Burst  the  tyrant's  base  control  ? 
Yo  that  boldly  bade  defiance, 

Proud  iu  arms,  to  Pharaoh's  throne, 
Can  ye  now,  in  tame  compliance, 

In  a  baser  bondage  groan  ? 
Gallant  Nation !  naught  appalled  you, 

Bold,  in  Heaven's  propitious  hour, 
AYhen  the  voice  of  Freedom  called  you 

From  a  tyrant's  haughty  power. 
AVhen  their  chariots,  clad  in  thunder, 

Swept  the  ground  in  long  array ; 
AVhen  the  ocean,  burst  asunder, 

Hovered  o'et  your  sandy  way. 
Gallant  race  I  that,  ceaseless  toiling 

Trod  Arabia's  pathless  wild ; 
Plains  iu  verdure  never  smiling, 

Roclts  in  barren  grandeur  piled, — 
AA'hithcr  fled,  ()  altered  Nation  ! 

AA'hitlu-r  fk-d  that  generous  soul? 


286  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  JEPHTHES. 

Dead  to  Freedom's  inspiration, 

Slaves  of  Ammon's  base  control ! 
God  of  Heaven !   whose  voice,  commanding, 

Bids  the  whirlwind  scour  the  deep, 
Or  the  waters,  smooth  expanding, 

Robed  in  glassy  radiance  sleep, — 
God  of  Love  !  in  mercy  bending, 

Hear  thy  woe-worn  captives'  prayer  ! 
From  thy  throne,  in  peace  descending, 

Soothe  their  sorrows,  calm  their  care ! 
Though  thy  mercy,  long  departed, 

Spurn  thy  once-loved  people's  cry, 
Say,  shall  Ammon,  iron-hearted, 

Triumph  with  impunity  ? 
If  the  sword  of  desolation 

Must  our  sacred  camp  appall, 
And  thy  chosen  generation 

Prostrate  in  the  battle  fall — 
Grasp,  O  God !  thy  flaming  thunder ; 

Launch  thy  stormy  wrath  around ! 
Cleave  their  battlements  asunder, 

Shake  their  cities  to  the  ground ! 
Hast  thou  dared,  in  mad  resistance, 

Tyrant,  to  contend  with  God  ? 
Shall  not  Heaven's  supreme  assistance 

Snatch  us  from  thy  mortal  rod  ? 
Wretch  accursed !  thy  fleeting  gladness 

Leaves  Contrition's  serpent  sting ; 
Short-lived  pleasure  yields  to  sadness, 

Hasty  fate  is  on  the  wing  ! 
Mark  the  battle,  mark  the  ruin ; 

Havoc  loads  the  groaning  plain ; 
Ruthless  vengeance,  keen  pursuing, 

Grasps  thee  in  her  iron  chain ! 

1794. 


THE  DIRGE  OF  WALLACE.  2S7 


THE  DIRGE  OF  WALLACE. 

WHEX  Scotland's  great  Regent,  our  warrior  most 
dear, 

The  debt  of  his  nature  did  pay, 
'T  was  Edward,  the  cruel,  had  reason  to  fear, 

And  cause  to  be  struck  with  dismay. 

At  the  window  of  Edward  the  raven  did  croak, 

Though  Scotland  a  widow  became ; 
Each  tie  of  true  honor  to  Wallace  he  broke — 

The  raven  croaked  "  Sorrow  and  shame  !" 

At  Elderslie  Castle  no  raven  was  heard, 
But  the  soothings  of  honor  and  truth ; 

His  spirit  inspired  the  soul  of  the  bard 
To  comfort  the  Love  of  his  youth  ! 

They  lighted  the  tapers  at  dead  of  night, 

And  chanted  their  holiest  hymn ; 
But   her  brow   and   her  bosom    were    damp   with 
affright, 

Her  eye  was  all  sleepless  and  dim ! 

And  the  lady  of  Elderslie  wept  for  her  lord, 

When  a  death-watch  beat  in  her  lonely  room, 
When  her  curtain  had  shook  of  its  own  accord, 
And  the  raven  had  flapped  at  her  window  board 

To  tell  of  her  warriors  doom. 

1  \ 
Now  sing  ye  the  death-song,  and  loudly  pray 

For  the  soul  of  my  knight  so  dear ! 
And  call  me  a  widow,  this  wretched  da}-, 

Since  the  warning  of  GOD  is  here. 

For  a  nightmare  rests  on  my  strangled  sleep  j 
The  lord  of  my  bosom  is  doomed  to  die ! 


"8  THE  DIRGE  OF  WALLACE. 

His  valorous  heart  they  have  wounded  deep, 
And  the  blood-red  tears  shall  his  country  weep 
For  Wallace  of  Elderslie. 

Yet  knew  not  his  country,  that  ominous  hour, 

Ere  the  loud  matin-bell  was  rung, 
That  the  trumpet  of  death  on  an  English  tower, 

Had  the  dirge  of  her  champion  sung. 

When  his  dungeon-light  looked  dim  and  red 
On  the  high-born  blood  of  a  martyr  slain, 
No  anthem  was  sung  at  his  lowly  death-bed, — 
No  weeping  was  there  when  his  bosom  bled, 
And  his  heart  was  rent  in  twain. 

When  he  strode  o'er  the  wreck  of  each  well-fought 
field, 

With  the  yellow-haired  chiefs  of  his  native  land ; 
For  his  lance  was  not  shivered  on  helmet  or  shield, 
And  the  sword  that  was  fit  for  archangel  to  wield 

Was  light  in  his  terrible  hand. 

Yet,  bleeding  and  bound,  though   ''  the  Wallace- 
wight" 

For  his  long-loved  country  die, 
The  bugle  ne'er  sung  to  a  braver  knight 

Than  William  of  Elderslie. 

But  the  day  of  his  triumphs  shall  never  depart ; 
His   head,    unentombed,    shall    with    glory    be 

palmed : 

From  its  blood-streaming  altar  his  spirit  shall  start ; 
Though  the  raven  has  fed  en  his  mouldering  heart, 
A  nobler  was  never  embaluiwd  ! 

1795. 


EPISTLE  TO  THREE  LADIES.  269 

EPISTLE  TO  THREE  LADIES. 

WRITTEN  OX  THE  BANKS  OP  THE  CART. 

HEALTH  and  Content  forevermore  abide 

The  sister  Friends  that  dwell  on  Cartha's  side 

Pleased  may  ye  pass  your  rural  life,  and  rind 

In  every  guest  a  pure,  congenial  mind ! 

Blessed  be  your  sheltered  cot,  and  sweet  the  walk 

Where  Mira,  Helen,  and  Eugenia,  talk ! 

Where,  wandering  slow  the  pendent  woods  bet  ween, 

Ye  pass  no  song  unheard,  no  flower  unseen  ; 

With  kindly  voice  the.  little  warbler  tame, 

And  call  familiar  "  Robin"  by  his  name ; 

The  favorite  bird  comes  fluttering  at  command, 

Nor  fears  unkindness  from  a  gentle  hand. 

I  bless  your  sheltered  vale  and  rural  cot ! — 
Yet  why  my  blessing  ? — for  ye  need  it  not ; 
The  charm  of  life  forevermore  endures, 
Congenial  Sisters,  in  a  home  like  yours ! 
Whatever  sweets  descend  from  heaven  to  cheer 
The  changeful  aspect  of  the  circling  year, — 
Whatever  charms  the  enthusiast  can  peruse 
In  Nature's  face,  in  music,  and  the  Muse, — 
'T  is  yours  to  taste,  exalted  and  refined, 
Beyond  the  pleasures  of  a  vulgar  mind. 

When  dew-drops  glitter  in  the  morning  ray, 
By  Cartha's  side,  a  smiling  group,  ye  stray ; 
Or  round  the  tufted  hill  delight  to  roam 
Where  the  pure  torrent  falls  in  showery  foam ; 
Or  climb  the  castled  cliff,  and  pause  to  view 
Spires,  villas,  plains,  and  mountains  dimly  blue  j 
Then,  down  the  steep,  a  wood-grown  path  explore. 
And,  wandering  home  by  Elepa's  cottage-door, 
To  greet  the  rustic  pair  a  while  delay, 
And  ask  for  their  poor  boy,  in  India — far  away  ! 


1290  EPISTLE  TO  THREE  LADIES. 

Congenial  Sisters !  when  the  vesper-bell 
Tolls  from  yon  village,  through  your  echoing  dell, 
Around  your  parlor-fire  your  group  convenes, 
To  talk  of  friends  beloved,  and  former  scenes. 
Remembrance  pours  her  visions  on  the  sight, 
Sweet  as  the  silver  moon's  reflected  light ; 
And  Fancy  colors,  with  her  brightest  dye, 
The  musing  mood  of  pensive  ecstasy. 

Perhaps  ye  hear  in  heavenly  measure  play 
The  pipe  of  Shenstone,  or  the  lyre  of  Gray ; 
With  Eloise  deplore  the  lover's  doom ; 
With  Ossian  weep  at  Agandecca's  tomb  j 
Or  list  the  lays  of  Burns,  untimely  starred ! 
Or  weep  for  "  Auburn"  with  the  sweetest  bard. 
Friends  of  according  hearts  !  to  you  belong 
The  soul  of  feeling — fit  to  judge  of  song ! 
Unlike  the  clay-cold  pedantry,  that  draws 
The  length  and  breadth  for  censure  and  applause. 

Shame  to  the  dull-browed  arrogance  of  schools  !— 

Shall  apish  Art  to  Nature  dictate  rules  ? 

Shall  critic  hands  to  Pathos  set  the  seal, 

Or  tell  the  heart  to  feel — or  not  to  feel  ? 

No  ! — let  the  verse  a  host  of  these  defy 

That  draws  the  tear  from  one  impassioned  eye. 

Congenial  Friends  !  your  Cartha's  woody  side 
How  simply  sweet,  beyond  the  city's  pride  ! 
Who  would  forsake  your  green  retreat  to  share 
The  noise  of  life — the  fashion  and  the  glare  ! 
To  herd  with  souls  by  no  fine  feeling  moved ; 
To  speak,  and  live,  unloving — unbeloved  ! 
In  noisy  crowds  the  languid  heart  to  drown, 
And  barter  Peace  and  Nature  for  a  town  ! 

0,  Nature — Nature !  thine  the  vivid  charm 
To  raise  the  true-toned  spirit,  and  to  warm ! 


EPISTLE  TO  THREE  LADIES.  291 

Thy  face,  still  changing  with  the  changeful  clime, — 
Mild  or  romantic,  beauteous  or  sublime, — 
Can  win  the  raptured  taste  to  every  scene — 
Kilda's  wild  shore,  or  Roslin's  lovely  green. 

Yes — I  have  found  thy  power  pervade  my  mind, 
When  every  other  charm  was  left  behind ; 
When  doomed  a  listless,  friendless  guest  to  roam, 
Far  from  the  sports  and  nameless  joys  of  Lome ! 
Yet,  when  the  evening  linnet  sang  to  rest 
The  day-star  wandering  to  the  rosy  west, 
I  loved  to  trace  the  wave- worn  shore,  and  view 
Romantic  Nature  in  her  wildest  hue. 
There,  as  I  lingered  on  the  vaulted  steep, 
lona's  towers  tolled  mournful  o'er  the  deep ; 
Till  all  my  bosom  owned  a  sacred  mood,  • 
And  blessed  the  wild  delight  of  solitude  ! 

Yes — all  alone,  I  loved  in  days  of  yore 

To  climb  the  steep,  and  trace  the  sounding  shore  ; 

But  better  far  my  new  delight  to  hail 

Nature's  mild  face  in  Cartha's  lovely  vale ! 

Well  pleased  I  haste  to  view  each  favorite  spot, — 

The  wood,  the  stream,  the  castle,  and  the  cot. 

And  hear  sweet  Robin  in  the  sheltered  walk, 

Where  Mira,  Helen,  and  Eugenia,  talk  ! 

1797. 


DEATH  OF  MY  ONLY  .SON. 
DEATH  OF  MY  ONLY  SON. 

FROM   THE  DANISH. 

CAN  mortal  solace  ever  raise 
The  eroken  pillar  of  my  days, 
Or  Fate  restore  a  form  so  dear 
As  that  which  lies  unconscious  here  ? 
Ah  no,  my  Darco !  latest  given, 
And  last  reclaimed  gift  of  Heaven  ! 
Possessing  thee,  I  still  could  Mess 
One  lingering  beam  of  happiness  ! 

My  loved,  my  lost,  my  only  care  ! 
I  vainly  thought  with  thee  to  share 
Thy  heart's  discourse,  so  gently  kind, 
And  mould  to  worth  thy  pliant  mind; 
Nor,  warned  of  all  my  future  woe, 
Presumed  on  happiness  below ! 
But  losing  thee,  my  blooming  Boy, 
I  cannot  lose  another  joy ; 
For  all  that  stayed  my  earthly  trust 
With  thee  is  buried  in  the  dust ! 

Nine  charming  years  had  fraught  with  grace 
Thy  sprightly  soul  and  lovely  face, 
Where  harshness  had  not  planted  fear, 
Nor  sorrow  wrung  one  silent  tear ; 
But  frank  and  warm  my  Darco  flew, 
To  share  each  welcome  and  adieu, — 
Each  word,  each  step,  each  look  to  attend — 
My  child,  my  pupil,  and  my  friend ! 

O,  when  his  gayly-srniling  talk 
Endeared  my  lonely  summer  walk. 
Or  when  I  sat  at  day's  decline 
And  clasped  his  little  hand  in  mine, 
How  many  woes  were  then  forgot ! 
How  blissful  seemed  his  futhei'*  lot! 


LAUDOHN'S  ATTACK.  293 

And,  breathing  love,  my  bosom  said, 
Thus,  on  my  dying  couch  when  laid, 
Thus  shall  I  bid  thee,  Darco,  stand, 
And  grasp  thee  with  my  failing  hand. 

Cold,  cold,  thou  pledge  of  future  charms, 
As  she  who  gave  thee  to  my  arms ! 
My  buried  hopes !  your  grave  is  won, 
And  Mary  sleeps  beside  her  son  ! 

Now  hush,  my  heart !  afflicting  Heaven, 
Thy  will  be  done,  thy  solace  given ! 
For  mortal  hand  can  never  raise 
The  broken  pillar  of  my  days, 
Nor  earth  restore  a  form  so  dear 
As  that  which  lies  unconscious  here. 

1800. 


LAUDOHN'S  ATTACK. 

RISE,  ye  Croats,  fierce  and  strong, 
Form  the  front,  and  march  along ! 
1  And  gather  fast,  ye  gallant  men 
From  Nona  and  from  Warrasden, 
Whose  sunny  mountains  nurse  a  line 
Generous  as  her  fiery  wine ! 

Hosts  of  Buda!  hither  bring 
The  bloody  flag  and  eagle  wing : 
Ye  that  drink  the  rapid  stream 
Fast  by  walled  Salankeme. 
Eanks  of  Agria  ! — head  and  hee ' 
Sheathed  in  adamantine  eteel — 
Quit  the  woodlands  and  the  boar, 
Ye  hunters  wild,  on  Drava's  shore ; 
And  ye  that  hew  her  oaken  wood, 
Brown  with  lusty  hardihood — 
The  trumpets  sound,  the  colors  fly, 
And  Laudohn  leads  to  victory ! 


294  TO  A  BEAUTIFUL  JEWISH  GIRL. 

Hark !  the  summons  loud  and  strong,. 
"  Follow,  soldiers !   march  along !" 
Every  baron,  sword  in  hand, 
Rides  before  his  gallant  band  ! 
Grenadiers !  that,  fierce  and  large, 
Stamp  like  dragons  to  the  charge — 
Foot  and  horseman,  serf  and  lord, 
Triumph  now  with  one  accord. 
Years  of  triumph  shall  repay 
Death  and  danger's  troubled  day. 
Soon  the  rapid  shot  is  o'er, 
But  glory  lasts  forevermore  ! 
Glory,  whose  immortal  eye 
Guides  us  to  the  victory. 


TO  A  BEAUTIFUL  JEWISH  GIRL  OF 
ALTONA. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

O,  JUDITH  !  had  our  lot  been  cast       , 

In  that  remote  and  simple  time 
When,  shepherd  swains,  thy  fathers  past 
From  dreary  wilds  and  deserts  vast 
To  Judah's  happy  clime ; 

My  song  upon  the  mountain  rocks 
Had  echoed  of  thy  rural  charms  j 

And  I  had  fed  thy  father's  flocks, 

O  Judith  of  the  raven  locks  ! 
To  win  thee  to  my  arms. 

Our  tent,  beside  the  murmur  calm 

Of  Jordan's  grassy-vested  shore, 
Had  sought  the  shadow  of  the  palm, 
And  blessed  with  Gilead's  holy  balm 
Our  hospitable  door ! 


TO  A  BEAUTIFUL  JEWISH  GIRL. 

At  falling  night,  or  ruby  dawn, 

Or  yellow  moonlight's  welcome  cool,   - 
With  health  and  gladness  we  had  drawn. 
From  silver  fountains  on  the  lawn, 
Our  pitcher  brimming  full. 

How  sweet  to  us  at  sober  hours 

The  bird  of  Salem  would  have  sung, 
In  orange  or  in  almond  bowers, — 
Fresh  with  the  bloom  of  many  flowers, 
Like  thee  forever  young ! 

But  ah,  my  Love  !  thy  father's  land 
Presents  no  more  a  spicy  bloom  ! 

Nor  fills  with  fruit  the  reaper's  hand ; 

But  wide  its  silent  wilds  expand — 
A  desert  and  a  tomb. 

Yet,  by  the  good  and  golden  hours 

That  dawned  those  rosy  fields  among,— 

By  Zion's  palm-encircled  towers, 

J5y  Salem's  far  forsaken  bowers, 
And  long-forgotten  song — 
#  # 

1800. 


296  EPITAPHS. 

FAREWELL 

TO    MY   SISTER,   ON    LEAVING    EDINBURGH. 

FAREWELL,  Edina !  pleasing  name,  — 

Congenial  to  my  heart ! 
A  joyous  guest  to  thee  I  fame, 

And  mournful  I  depart. 

And  fare  thce  well,  whose  blessings  seem 
Heaven's  blessing  to  portend  ! 

Endeared  by  nature  and  esteem — 
My  sister  and  my  friend ! 


EPITAPHS. 


IN  deep  submission  to  the  will  above, 

Yet  with  no  common  cause  for  human  tears, 

This  stone  to  the  lost  partner  of  his  love. 
And  for  his  children  lost,  a  mourner  rears. 

One  fatal  moment,  one  o'envhelming  doom, 

Tore,  threefold,  from  his  heart  the  ties  of  earth  : 

His  Mary,  Margaret,  in  their  early  bloom, 

And  HER  who  gave  them  life,  and  taught  thero 
worth. 

Farewell,  ye  broken  pillars  of  my  fate ! 

My  life's  companion,  and  my  two  first-born 
Yet  while  this  silent  stone  I  consecrate 

To  conjugal,  paternal  love  forlorn, 


EPITAPHS.  -207 

O,  may  each  passer-by  the  lesson  learn, — 
Which  can  alone  the  bleeding  heart  sustain 

Where  Friendship  weeps  at  Virtue's  funeral  um,— 
That,  to  the  pure  in  heart,  To  die  is  gain  ! 

n. 

He  pointed  out  to  others,  and  he  trod 

Himself,  the  path  to  virtue  and  to  God ; 

The  Christian's  practice  and  the  preacher's  zeal 

His  life  united :  many  who  have  lost 

Their  friend,  their  pastor,  mourn  for  him ;  but  most 
The  hearts  that  knew  lum  nearest,  deepest,  feel. 
And  yet,  lamented  spirit !  we  should  ill 
The  sacred  precepts  of  thy  life  fulfil, 
Could  we — thy  mother  and  thy  widowed  wife — •. 

Consign  thy  much-loved  relics  to  the  dust 

Unsolaced  by  this  high  and  holy  trust — 
There  is  another  and  a  better  life  ! 

m. 

Man  !  shouldst  thou  fill  the  proudest  throne, 
And  have  mightiest  deeds  enacted, 

Thither,  like  steel  to  the  magnet-stone, 
Thou  goest  compelled — attracted  ! 

The  grave-stone — the  amulet  of  trouble—- 
Makes love  a  phantom  seem  ; 

Calls  glory  but  a  bubble, 
And  life  itself  a  dream. 

The  grave  }&  a  sealed  letter, 

That  secrets  will  reveal 
Of  a  next  world, — worse  or  better,— 

And  the  gravestone  is  the  seal ! 

But  the  seal  shall  not  be  broken, 

Nor  the  letter's  secrets  read. 
Till  the  last  trump  shall  have  spoken 

To  the  living  and  the  dead ! 


298  THE  BKITISH  GRENADIERS. 


THE  BRITISH  GRENADIERS. 

UPON  the  plains  of  Flanders, 

Our  fathers,  long  ago, 
They  fought  like  Alexanders 

Beneath  brave  Marlborough ! 
And  still,  in  fields  of  conquest, 

Our  valor  bright  has  shone 
With  Wolfe  and  Abercrombie, 

•And  Moore,  and  Wellington ! 

Our  plumes  have  waved  in  combats 

That  ne'er  shall  be  forgot, 
Where  many  a  mighty  squadron 

Reeled  backward  from  our  shot : 
In  charges  with  the  bayonet 

•We  lead  our  bold  compeers, 
But  Frenchmen  like  to  stay  not 

For  the  British  Grenadiers  ! 

Once  boldly,  at  Vimiera,* 

They  hoped  to  play  their  parts, 
And  sang  fcd-lira-lira, 

To  cheer  their  drooping  hearts : 
But,  English,  Scots,  and  Paddy  Whacks, 

We  gave  three  noble  cheers; 
And  the  French  soon  turned  their  backs 

To  the  British  Grenadiers ! 

At  St.  Sebastiano's, 

And  Badajos's  town, 
Where,  raging  like  volcanoes, 

The  shot  and  shells  came  down, 

*  At  Vimiera,  the  French  ranks  advanced  singing;  ttie  British 
«nly  cheered. 


TRAFALGAR.  299 


courage  never  wncng, 
We  scaled  the  ramparts  high, 
And  waved  the  British  ensign 
In  glorious  victory  ! 

And  what  could  Bonaparte. 

With  all  his  cuirassiers, 
At  Waterloo,  in  battle  do 

With  British  Grenadiers  ?  — 
Then  ever  sweet  the  drum  shall  beat 

That  march  unto  our  ears, 
Whose  martial  roll  awakes  the  soul 

Of  British  Grenadiers  ! 


TRAFALGAR. 

WHEN  Frenchmen  saw,  with  coward  art, 

The  assassin  shot  of  war 
That  pierced  Britain's  noblest  heart, 

And  quenched  her  brightest  star, 

Their  shout  was  heard, — they  triumphed  now 

Amidst  the  battle's  roar, 
And  thought  the  British  oak  would  bow, 

Since  Nelson  was  no  more. 

But  fiercer  flamed  old  England's  pride, 
And — marked  the  vengeance  due ! 

"  Down,  down,  insulting  ship,"  she  cried, 
"To  death,  with  all  thy  crew! 

"  So  perish  ye  for  Nelson's  blood ! — 

If  deaths  like  thine  can  pay 
JToi  blood  so  brave,  or  ocean  wave 

Can  wash  that  crime  away !" 


300          LINES  ON  THE  STATE  OF  GREECE. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  SICKNESS. 

O,  DEATH  !  if  there  be  quiet  in  thine  arms, 
And  I  must  cease — gently,  O,  gently  come 
To  me !  and  let  my  soul  learn  no  alarms, 

But  strike  me,  ere  a  shriek  can  echo,  dumb, 
Senseless,  and  breathless ! — And  thou,  sickly  life, 

If  the  decree  be  writ  that  I  must  die, 
Do  thou  be  guilty  of  no  needless  strife, 

Nor  pull  me  downwards  to  mortality 
When  it  were  fitter  I  should  take  a  flight 

But  whither? — Holy  Pity  !  hear,  O,  hear ! 
And  lift  me  to^some  far-off  skyey  sphere, 

Whore  I  may  wander  in  celestial  light : 
Might  it  be  so — then  would  my  spirit  fear 

To  quit  the  things  I  have  so  loved  when  seen,— 

The  air,  the  pleasant  sun,  the  summer  green,— 
Knowing  now  few  would  shed  one  kindly  tear, 

Or  keep  in  mind  that  I  had  ever  been '? 


LINES  ON  THE  STATE  OF  GREECE, 

OCCASIONED     BY    BEING     PRESSED     TO     MAKE     IX     A 
SUBJECT    OF   POETRY,    1827. 

Ix  Greece's  cause  the  Muse,  you  deem, 
Ought  still  to  plead,  persisting  strong ; 

But  feel  you  not 't  is  now  a  theme 

That  wakens  thought  too  deep  for  song  ? 

The  Christian  world  has  seen  you,  Greeks, 

Heroic  on  your  ramparts  fall ; 
The  world  has  heard  your  widows'  slirieks. 

Ami  sp.cn  your  orphans  dragged  in  thrall. 


LINES.      .  301 

Even  England  brooks  that,  reeking  hot, 
The  ruffian's  sabre  drinks  your  veins, 

And  leaves  your  thinning  remnant's  lot 
The  bitter  choice  of  death  or  chains. 

O  !  if  we  have  nor  hearts  nor  swords, 
To  snatch  you  from  the  assassins'  brand, 

Let  not  our  pity's  idle  words 

Insult  your  pale  and  prostrate  land ! 

No  !  be  your  cause  to  England  now, 
That  by  permitting  acts  the  wrong, 

A  thought  of  horror  to  her  brow, 

A  theme  for  blushing — not  for  song  ! 

To  see  her  unavenging  ships 

Ride  fast  by  Greece's  funeral-pile, 
'T  is  worth  a  curse  from  Sibyl  lips ! 

7T  is  matter  for  a  demon's  smile ! 


LINES 

OX   JAMES   TV.    OF   SCOTLAND,   WHO   FELL    AT    THE 
BATTLE  OF  FLOBDEN 

JT  "WAS  he  that  ruled  his  coimtry's  heart 

With  more  than  royal  sway ; 
But  Scotland  saw  her  James  depart, 

And  saddened  atxhis  stay. 
She  heard  his  fate — she  wept  her  grief — 
That  James  her  loved,  her  gallant  chief, 

Was  gone  forevermore : 
But  this  she  learnt,  that,  ere  he  fell, 
(0  men  !  O  patriots !  mark  it  well), 


302         TO  JEMIMA,  ROSE,  AND  ELEANORE. 

His  fellow-soldiers  round  his  fall 
Enclosed  him  like  a  living  wall, 

Mixing  their  kindred  gore ! 
Nor  was  the  day  of  Flodden  done 
Till  they  were  slaughtered  one  by  one ; 

And  this  may  serve  to  show, 
When  kings  are  patriots,  none  will  fly ; — 
When  such  a  king  was  doomed  to  die, 

O,  who  would  death  forego  ? 


TO  JEMIMA,   ROSE,   AND   ELEANORE, 

THREE  CELEBRATED  SCOTTISH  BEAUTIES. 

ADIEU,  Romance's  heroines ! 
Give  me  the  nymphs  who  this  good  hour 
May  charm  me  not  in  fiction's  scenes, 
But  teach  me  Beauty's  living  power; — 
My  harp,  that  has  been  mute  too  long, 
Shall  sleep  at  Beauty's  name  no  more, 
tSo  but  your  smiles  reward  my  song, 
Jemima,  Rose,  and  Eleanore, — 

In  whose  benignant  eyes  are  beaming1 
The  rays  of  purity  and  truth ; 
Such  as  we  fancy  woman's  seeming, 
In  the  creation's  golden  youth ; — 
The  more  I  look  upon  thy  grace, 
Rosina,  I  could  look  the  more, 
But  for  Jemima's  witching  face, 
And  the  sweet  voice  of  Eleanore. 

Had  I  been  Lawrence,  kings  had  wanted 
Their  portraits,  till  I  'd  painted  yours, 
And  these  had  future  hearts  enchanted 
When  this  poor  verse  no  more  endures ; 


SONG,  303 

I  would  have  left  the  congress  faces, 
A  dull-eyed  diplomatic  corps, 
Till  I  had  grouped  you  a8  the  graces, 
Jemima,  Rose,  and  Eleanore! 

The  Catholic  bids  fair  saints  befriend  him 
Your  poet's  heart  is  catholic  too, — 
His  rosary  shall  be  flowers  ye  send  him, 
His  saint-days  when  he  visits  you. 
And  my  sere  laurels,  for  my  duty, 
Miraculous  at  your  touch  would  rise, 
Could  I  give  verse  one  trace  of  beauty 
Like  that  which  glads  me  from  your  eyes. 

Unsealed  by  you,  these  lips  Lave  spoken, 

Disused  to  song  for  many  a  day ; 

Ye  Ve  tuned  a  harp  whose  strings  were  broken, 

And  warmed  a  heart  of  callous  clay  5 

So,  when  my  fancy  next  refuses 

To  twine  for  you  a  garland  more, 

Come  back  again  and  be  my  Muses, 

Jemima,  Rose,  and  Eleanore. 


SONG. 

'T  is  now  the  hour — 't  is  now  the  hour 

To  bow  at  Beauty's  shrine ; 
Now,  whilst  our  hearts  confess  the  power 

Of  women,  wit,  and  wine ; 
And  beaming  eyes  look  on  so  bright, 
Wit  springs,  wine  sparkles  in  then-  light. 

In  such  an  hour — in  such  an  hour, 

In  such  an  hour  as  this, 
While  Pleasure's  fount  throws  up  a  shower 

Of  social  sprinkling  bliss, 
Why  does  my  bosom  heave  the  sigh 
That  mars  delight  ? — She  is  not  by ! 


304       LINES  TO  EDWARD  LYTTOX  BULWER. 

There  was  an  hour — there  was  an  hour 

When  I  indulged  the  spell 
That  love  wound  round-me  with  a  power 

Words  vainly  try  to  tell ; — 
Though  love  has  filled  my  checkered  doom 
With  fruits  and  thorns,  and  light  and  gloom- 
Yet  there  's  an  hour — there  's  still  an  hour 

Whose  coming  sunshine  may 
Clear  from  the  clouds  that  hang  and  lower 

My  fortune's  future  day : 
That  hour  of  hours  beloved  will  be 
The  hour  that  gives  thee  back  to  me ! 


LINES  TO  EDWARD  LYTTON  BULWER, 

ON   THE   BIRTH   OF   HIS    CHILD. 

MY  heart  is  with  you,  Bulwer !  and  portrays 
The  blessings  of  your  first  paternal  days. 
To  clasp  the  pledge  of  purest,  holiest  faith, 
To  taste  one's  own  and  love-born  infant's  breath, 
I  know,  nor  would  for  worlds  forget  the  bliss. 
I  've  felt  that  to  a  father's  heart  that  kiss, 
As  o'er  its  little  lips  you  smile  and  cling, 
Has  fragrance  which  Arabia  could  not  bring. 

Such  are  the  joys,  ill  mocked  in  ribald  song, 

In  thought  even  freshening  life  our  life-time  long., 

That   give   our    souls    on   earth    a    heaven-drawn 

bloom ; 

Without  them,  we  are  weeds  upon  a  tomb. 
Joy  be  to  thee,  and  her  whose  lot  with  thine 
Propitious  stars  saw  truth  and  passion  twine ! 


CONTENT.  305 

Joy  be  to  her  who  in  your  rising  name 

Feels  Love's  bower  brightened  by  the  beams  of 

fame! 

I  lacked  a  father's  claim  to  her — but  knew 
Regard  for  her  young  years  so  pure  and  true, 
That,  when  she  at  the  altar  stood  your  bride, 
A  sire  could  scarce  have  felt  more  sire-like  pride. 


CONTENT* 

[Air— "  The  Flower  of  North  Wales."] 

0  CHERUB  Content !  at  thy  moss-covered  shrine 

1  'd  all  the  gay  hopes  of  my  bosom  resign ; 
I  'd  part  with  ambition  thy  votary  to  be, 

And  breathe  not  a  sigh  but  to  Friendship  and  thee ! 

But  thy  presence  appears  from  my  wishes  to  fly, 
Like  the  gold-colored  clouds  on  the  verge  of  the  sky ; 
No  lustre  that  hangs  on  the  green  willow  tree 
Is  so  sweet  as  the  smile  of  thy  favor  to  me. 

In  the  pulse  of  my  heart  I  have  nourished  a  care 
That  forbids  me  thy  sweet  inspiration  to  share  ; 
The  noon  of  my  life  slow  departing  I  see, 
But  its  years  as  they  pass  bring  no  tidings  of  thee. 

0  cherub  Content !  at  thy  moss-covered  shrine 

1  would  offer  my  vows,  if  Matilda  were  mine ; 
Could  I  call  her  my  own,  whom  enraptured  I  see, 

I  would  breathe  not  a  sigh  but  to  Friendship  and 
thee! 

•  These  verses  were  addressed  to  Matilda  Sinclair,  who  after- 
wards became  Campbell's  wife. 


306  LINES. 


LINES 

OX   THE   VIEW   FROM    ST.    LEONARD'S. 

HAIL  to  thy  face  and  odors,  glorious  Sea ! 
''T  were  thanklessness  in  me  to  bless  thee  not, 
Great  beauteous  Being !  in  whose  breath  and  smile 
My  heart  beats  calmer,  and  my  very  mind 
Inhales  salubrious  thoughts.     How  welcomer 
Thy  murmurs  than  the  murmurs  of  the  world  ! 
Though  like  the  world  thou  fluctuatest,  thy  din 
To  me  is  peace,  thy  restlessness  repose. 
Even  gladly  I  exchange  yon  spring-green  lanes 
With  all  the  darling  field  flowers  in  their  prime, 
And  gardens  haunted  by  the  nightingale's 
Long  trills  and  gushing  ecstacies  of  song, 
For  these  wild  headlands,  and  the  sea-mew's  clang  — 

With  thee  beneath  my  windows,  pleasant  Sea, 

I  long  not  to  o'erlook  earth's  fairest  glades 

And  green  savannahs — Earth  has  not  a  plain 

So  boundless  or  so  beautiful  as  thine  ; 

The  eagle's  vision  cannot  take  it  in : 

The  lightning's  wing,  too  weak  to  sweep  its  space, 

Sinks  half-way  o'er  it  like  a  wearied  bird : 

It  is  the  mirror  of  the  stars,  where  all 

Their  hosts  within  the  concave  firmament, 

Gay  marching  to  the  music  of  the  spheres, 

Can  see  themselves  at  once. 

Nor  on  the  stage 

Of  rural  landscape  are  there  lights  and  shades 
Of  more  harmonious  dance  and  play  than  thine. 
How  vividly  this  moment  brightens  forth, 
Between  gray  parallel  and  leaden  breadths, 
A  belt  of  hues  that  stripes  thee  many  a  league, 
Flushed  like  the  rainbow,  or  the  ringdove's  neck, 
And  giving  to  the  glancing  sea-bird's  wing 
The  semblance  of  a  meteor. 


•LIKES.  307 

Mighty  Sea  ! 

Cameleon-like  thou  changes!,  but  there  's  love 
In  all  thy  change,  and  constant  sympathy 
With  yonder  Sky — thy  Mistress ;  from  her  brow 
Thou  tak'st  thy  moods  and  wear'st  her  colors  on 
Thy  faithful  bosom ;  morning's  milky  white, 
Noon's  sapphire,  or  the  saffron  glow  of  eve  ; 
And  all  thy  balmier  hours,  fair  Element, 
Have  such  divine  complexion — crisped  smiles, 
Luxuriant  heavings  and  sweet  whisperings, 
That  little  is  the  wonder  Love's  own  Queen 
From  thee  of  old  was  fabled  to  have  sprang — 
Creation's  common  !  which  no  human  power 
Can  parcel  or  inclose ;  the  lordliest  floods 
And  cataracts  that  the  tiny  hands  of  man 
Can  tame,  conduct,  or  bound,  are  drops  of  dew 
To  thee  that  could'st  subdue  the  Earth  itself, 
And  brook'st  commandment  from  the  heavens  alone 
For  marshalling  thy  waves — 

Yet,  potent  Sea! 

How  placidly  thy  moist  lips  speak  even  now 
Along  yon  sparkling  shingles.     Who  can  be 
So  fanciless  as  to  feel  no  gratitude 
That  power  and  grandeur  can  be  so  serene, 
Soothing  the  homebound  navy's  peaceful  way, 
And  rocking  even  the  fisher's  little  bark 
As  gently  as  a  mother  rocks  her  child  ? — 

The  inhabitants  of  other  worlds  behold 

Our  orb  more  lucid  for  thy  spacious  share 

On  earth's  rotundity ;  and  is  he  not 

A  blind  worm  in  the  dust,  great  Deep,  the  man 

Who  sees  not  or  who  seeing  has  no  joy 

In  thy  magnificence?     What  though  thou  art 

Unconscious  and  material,  thou  canst  reach 

The  inmost  immaterial  mind's  recess, 

A*nd  with  th.y  tints  and  motion  stir  its  chords 

To  music,  like  ihe  light  on  Memnon's  lyre ! 


SOB 


The  Spirit  of  the  Universe  in  thee 

Is  visible  ;  thou  hast  in  thee  the  life  — 

The  eternal,  graceful,  and  majestic  life 

Of  nature,  and  the  natural  human  heart 

Is  therefore  bound  to  thee  with  holy  love. 

Earth  has  her  gorgeous  towns  ;  the  earth-circling 

sea 

Has  spires  and  mansions  more  amusive  still  — 
Men's  volant  homes  that  measure  liquid  space 
On  wheel  or  wing.     The  chariot  of  the  land 
With  pained  and  panting  steeds  and  clouds  of  dust 
Has  no  sight-gladdening  motion  like  these  fair 
Careerers  with  the  foam  beneath  their  bows, 
Whose  streaming  ensigns  charm  the  waves  by  day, 
Whose   carols   and   whose    watch-bells  '  cheer   the 

night, 

Moored  as  they  cast  the  shadows  of  their  masts 
In  long  array,  or  hither  flit  and  yond 
Mysteriously  with  slow  and  crossing  lights, 
Like  spirits  on  the  darkness  of  the  deep. 

There  is  a  magnet-like  attraction  in 

These  waters  to  the  imaginative  power 

That  links  the  viewless  with  the  visible, 

And  pictures  things  unseen.     To  realms  beyond 

Yon  highway  of  the  world  my  fancy  flies, 

When  by  her  tall  and  triple  mast  we  know 

Some  noble  voyager  that  has  to  woo 

The  trade-winds  and  to  stem  the  ecliptic  surge. 

The  coral  groves  —  the  shores  of  conch  and  pearl, 

Where  she  will  cast  her  anchor  and  reflect 

Her  cabin-window  lights  on  warmer  waves, 

And  under  planets  brighter  than  our  own  : 

The  nights  of  palmy  isles,  that  she  will  see 

Lit  boundless  by  the  fire-fly  —  all  the  smells 

Of  tropic  fruits  that  will  regale  her  —  all 

The  pomp  of  nature,  and  the  inspiriting 

Varieties  of  life  she  has  to  greet, 

Come  swarming  o'er  the  meditative  mind. 


LINES.  -     '  309 

True,  to  the  dream  of  Fancy,  Ocean  has 

His  darker  tints ;  but  where 's  the  element 

That  chequers  not  its  usefulness  to  man 

With  casual  terror?     Scathes  not  Earth  sometimes 

Her  children  with  Tartarean  fires,  or  shakes 

Their  shrieking  cities,  and,  with  one  last  clang 

Of  bells  for  their  own  ruin,  strews  them  flat 

As  riddled  ashes — silent  as  the  grave  ? 

Walks  not  Contagion  on  the  Air  itself? 

I  should — old  Ocean's  Saturnalian  days 

And  roaring  nights  of  revelry  and  sport 

With  wreck  and  human  woe — be  loth  to  sing ; 

For  they  are  few,  and  all  their  ills  weigh  light 

Against  his  sacred  usefulness,  that  bids 

Our  pensile  globe  revolve  insurer  air. 

Here  Morn  and  Eve  with  blushing  thanks  receive 

Their  freshening  dews,  gay  fluttering  breezes  cool 

Their  wings  to  fan  the  brow  of  fevered  climes, 

And  here  the  Spring  dips  down  her  emerald  urn 

For  showers  to  glad  the  earth. 

Old  Ocean  was 

Infinity  of  ages  ere  we  breathed 
Existence — and  he  will  be  beautiful 
When  all  the  living  world  that  sees  him  now 
Shall  roll  unconscious  dust  around  the  sun. 
Quelling  from  age  to  age  the  vital  throb 
In  human  hearts,  Death  shall  not  subjugate 
The  pulse  that  swells  in  his  stupendous  breast, 
Or  interdict  his  minstrelsy  to  sound 
In  thundering  concert  Avith  the  quiring  winds ; 
But  long  as  Man  to  parent  Nature  owns 
Instinctive  homage,  and  in  times  beyond 
The  power  of  thought  to  reach,  bard  after  bard 
Shall  sing  thy  glory,  BEATIFIC  SEA. 

1831. 


318  THE  DEAD  EAGLE. 

THE  DEAD  EAGLE. 

WEITTEX  AT  ORAX. 

FALLEN  as  he  is,  this  king  of  birds  still  seems 

Like  royalty  in  ruins.     Though  his  eyes 

Are  shut,  that  look  undazzled  on  the  sun, 

He  was  the  sultan  of  the  sky,  and  earth 

Paid  tribute  to  his  eyry.     It  was  perched 

Higher  than  human  conqueror  ever  built 

His  bannered  fort.     Where  Atlas'  top  looks  o'er 

Zahara's  desert  to  the  equator's  line : 

From  thence  the  winged  despot  marked  his  prey, 

Above  th'  encampments  of  the  Bedouins,  ere 

Their  watchfires  were  extinct,  or  camels  knelt 

To  take  their  loads,  or  horsemen  scoured  th-'  plain, 

And  there  he  dried  his  feathers  in  the  dawn, 

Whilst  yet  th'  unwakened  world  was  dark  below. 

There 's  such  a  charm  in  natural  strength  and  power, 

That  human  fancy  has  for  ever  paid 

Poetic  homage  to  the  bird  of  Jove. 

Hence,  'neath  his  image,  Rome  arrayed  her  turms 

And  cohorts  for  the  conquest  of  the  world. 

And  figuring  his  flight,  the  mind  is  filled 

With  thoughts  that  mock  the  pride  of  wingless  man. 

True,  the  carred  aeronaut  can  mount  as  high ; 

But  what 's  the  triumph  of  his  volant  art  ? 

A  rash  intrusion  on  the  realms  of  air. 

His  helmless  vehicle,  a  silken  toy, 

A  bubble  bursting  in  the  thunder-cloud  ; 

His  course  has  no  volition,  and  he  drifts 

The  passive  plaything  of  the  winds.     Not  such 

Was  this  proud  bird  :  he  clove  the  adverse  storm, 

And  cuffed  it  with  his  wings.     He  stopped  his  flight 

As  easily  as  the  Arab  reigns  his  steed, 

And  stood  at  pleasure  'ueath  Heaven's  zenith,  like 


THE  DEAD  EAGLE.  311 

A  lamp  suspended  from  its  azure  dome, 

Whilst  underneath  him  the  world's  mountains  lay 

Like  mole  hills,  and  her  streams  like  lucid  threads, 

Then  downward,  faster  than  a  falling  star, 

He  neared  the  earth,  until  his  shape  distinct 

Was  blackly  shadowed  on  the  sunny  ground  ; 

And  deeper  terror  hushed  the  wilderness, 

To  hear  his  nearer  whoop.     Then,  up  again 

He  soared  and  wheeled.     There  was  an  air  of  scorn 

In  all  his  movements,  whether  he  threw  reund 

His  crested  head  to  look  behind  him;  or 

Lay  vertical  and  sportively  displayed 

The  inside  whiteness  of  his  wing  declined, 

In  gyres  and  undulations  full  of  grace, 

An  object  beautifying  Heaven  itself. 

He — reckless  who  was  victor,  and  above 

The  hearing  of  their  guns — saw  fleets  engaged 

In  flaming  combat.     It  was  nought  to  him 

What  carnage,   Moor  or   Christian,  strewed   their 

decks. 

But  if  his  intellect  had  matched  his  wings, 
Methinks  he  would  have   scorned  man's  vaunted 

power 

To  plough  the  deep ;  his  pinions  bore  him  down 
To  Algiers  the  warlike,  or  the  coral  groves, 
That  blush  beneath  the  green  of  Bona's  waves ; 
And  traversed  in  an  hour  a  wider  space 
Than  yonder  gallant  ship,  with  all  her  sails 
Wooing  the  winds,  can  cross  from  morn  till  eve. 
His  bright  eyes  were  his  compass,  earth  his  chart, 
His  talons  anchored  on  the  stormiest  cliff, 
And  on  the  very  light-house  rock  he  perched, 
When  winds  churned  white  the  waves. 

The  earthquake's  self 
Disturbed  not  him  that  memorable  day. 
When,  o'er  yon  table-land,  where  Spain  had  built, 
Cathedrals,  cannoned  forts,  and  palaces, 
A  palsy  stroke  of  Nature  shook  Oran, 
Turning  her  city  to  a  sepulchre, 


312  THE  DEAD  EAGLE. 

And  strewing  into  rubbish  all  her  homes ; 
Amidst  whose  traceable  foundations  now, 
Of  streets  and  squares,  the  hyaena  hides  himself. 
That  hour  beheld  him  fly  as  careless  o'er 
The  stifled  shrieks  of  thousands  buried  quick, 
As  lately  when  he  pounced  the  speckled  snake, 
Coiled  in  yon  mallows  and  wide  nettled  fields 
That  mantle  o'er  the  dead  old  Spanish  town. 

Strange  is  the  imagination's  dread  delight 

In  objects  linked  with  danger,  death  and  pain ! 

Fresh  from  the  luxuries  of  polished  life, 

The  echo  of  these  wilds  enchanted  me ; 

And  my  heart  beat  with  joy  when  first  I  hear 

A  lion's  roar  come  down  the  Lybian  wind, 

Across  yon  long,  wide,  lonely  inland  lake, 

Where  boat  ne'er  sails  from  homeless  shore  to  shore 

And  yet  Numidia's  landscape  has  its  epots 

Of  pastoral  pleasantness — though  far  between, 

The  village  planted  near  the  Maraboot's 

Round  roof  has  aye  its  feathery  palm  trees 

Paired,  for  in  solitude  they  bear  no  fruits. 

Here  nature's  hues  all  harmonize — fields  white 

With  alasum,  or  blue  with  bugloss — banks 

Of  glossy  fennel,  blent  with  tulips  wild, 

And  sunflowers,  like  a  garment  prankt  with  gold ; 

Acres  and  miles  of  opal  asphodel, 

Where  sports  and  couches  the  black-eyed  gazelle. 

Here,  too,  the  air 's  harmonious — deep-toned  doves 

Coo  to  the  fife-liks  carol  of  the  lark ; 

And  when  they  cease,  the  holy  nightingale 

Winds  up  his  long,  long  shakes  of  ecstasy, 

With  notes  that  seem  but  the  protracted  sounds 

Of  glassy  runnels  bubbling  over  rocks. 


SONG.  313 


SONG. 

To  Love  in  my  heart,  I  exclaimed  t'  other  morning-, 
Thou  hast  dwelt  here  too  long,  little  lodger,  take 

warning ; 
Thou  shalt  tempt  me  no  more  from  my  life's  sober 

duty, 
To  go  gadding,  bewitched  by  the  young  eyes  of 

beauty. 

For  weary 's  the  wooing,  ah,  weary  ! 
When  an  old  man  will  have  a  young  dearie. 

The  god  left  my  heart,  at  its  surly  reflections. 
But  came  back  on  pretext  of  some  sweet  recollec- 
tions, 

And  he  made  me  forget  what  I  ought  to  remember, 
That  the  rose-bud  of  June  cannot  bloom  in  Novem- 
ber. 

Ah  !  Tom,  't  is  all  o'er  with  thy  gay  days — 
"Write  psalms,  and  not  songs  for  the  ladies. 

But  time 's  been  so  far  from  my  wisdom  enriching, 
That  the  longer  I  live,  beauty  seems  more  bewitching; 
And  the  only  new  lore  my  experience  traces, 
Is  to  find  fresh  enchantment  in  magical  faces. 

How  weary  is  wisdom,  how  weary ! 
"When  one  sits  by  a  smiling  young  dearie  ! 

And  should  she  be  wroth  that  my  homage  pursues 

her, 

I  will  turn  and  retort  on  my  lovely  accuser ; 
"Who 's  to  blame,  that  my  heart  by  your  image  is 

haunted — 
It  is  you,  the  enchantress — not  I,  the  enchanted, 

Would  you  have  me  behave  more  discreetly, 
Beauty,  look  not  so  killingly  sweetly. 


314  LINES. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  IN   A   BLANK   LEAF   OF   LA   PEROUSE?S 
VOYAGES. 

LOVED  Voyager !  his  pages  had  a  zest 
More  sweet  than  fiction  to  my  wondering  breast, 
When,  wrapt  in  fancy,  many  a  boyish  day 
I  tracked  his  wanderings  o'er  the  watery  way, 
Roamed  round  the  Aleutian  isles  in  waking  dreams, 
Or  plucked  the  Jteur-de-lys  by  Jesso's  streams — 
Or  gladly  leaped  on  that  far  Tartar  strand, 
Where  Europe's  anchor  ne'er  had  bit  the  sand, 
Where  scarce  a  roving  wild  tribe  crossed  the  plain, 
Or  human  voice  broke  nature's  silent  reign  j 
But  vast  and  grassy  deserts  feed  the  bear, 
And  sweeping  deer-herds  dread  no  hunter's  snare. 
Such  young  delight  his  real  recoids  brought, 
His  truth  so  touched  romantic  springs  of  thought, 
That  all  my  after-life — his  fate  and  fame 
Entwined  romance  with  La  Perouse's  name. — 
Fair  were  hia  ships,  expert  his  gallant  crews, 
And  glorious  was  th'  emprise  of  La  Perouse, — 
Humanely  glorious !     Men  will  weep  for  him, 
When  many  a  guilty  martial  fame  is  dim  : 
He  ploughed  the  deep  to  bind  no  captive's  chain—- 
Pursued no  rapine — strewed  no  wreck  with  slain ; 
And,  save  that  in  the  deep  themselves  lie  low, 
His  heroes  plucked  no  wreath  from  human  woe. 
'T  was  his  the  earth's  remotest  bound  to  scan, 
Conciliating  with  gifts  barbaric  man — 
Enrich  the  world's  contemporaneous  mind, 
And  amplify  the  picture  of  mankind. 
Far  on  the  vast  Pacific — 'midst  those  isles, 
O'er  which  the  earliest  morn  of  Asia  smiles, 
He  sounded  and  gave  charts  to  many  a  shore 
And  gulf  of  Ocean  new  to  nautic  lore ; 


LINES.  315 

Yet  he  that  led  Discovery  o'er  the  wave, 

Still  fills  himself  an  undiscovered  grave. 

He  came  not  back, — Conjecture's  cheek  grew  pale, 

Year  after  year — in  no  propitious  gale, 

His  lilied  banner  held  its  homeward  way, 

And  Science  saddened  at  her  martyr's  stay. 

An  age  elapsed — no  wreck  told  where  or  when 

The  chief  went  down  with  all  his  gallant  men, 

Or  whether  by  the  storm  and  wild  sea  flood 

He  perished,  or  by  wilder  men  of  blood — 

The  shuddering  Fancy  only  guessed  his  doom , 

And  Doubt  to  Sorrow  gave  but  deeper  gloom. 

An  age  elapsed — when  men  were  dead  or  gray, 

Whose  hearts  had  mourned  him  in  their  youthful 

day; 

Fame  traced  on  Mannicolo's  shore  at  last, 
The  boiling  surge  had  mounted  o'er  his  mast. 
The  islemen  told  of  some  surviving  men, 
But  Christian  eyes  beheld  them  ne'er  again. 
Sad  bourne  of  all  his  toils — with  all  his  band — 
To  sleep,  wrecked,  shroudless,  on  a  savag-e  strand ! 
Yet  what  is  all  that  fires  a  hero's  scorn  , 

Of  death  ? — the  hope  to  live  in  hearts  unborn  : 
Life  to  the  brave  is  not  its  fleeting  breath, 
But  worth — foretasting  fame,  that  follows  death. 
That  worth  had  La  Perouse — that  meed  he  won ; 
He  sleeps — his  life's  long  stormy  watch  is  done. 
In  the  great  deep,  whose  boundaries  and  space 
He  measured,  Fate  ordained  his  resting-place ; 
But  bade  his  fame,  like  th'  Ocean  rolling  o'er 
His  relics — visit  every  earthly  shore. 
Fair  Science  on  that  Ocean's  azure  robe 
Still  writes  his  name  in  picturing  the  globe, 
And    paints  —  (what    fairer  wreath    could    glory 

twine  f) 
His  watery  course — a  world-encircling  line. 

18.51. 


31G     TO  THE  COUNTESS  AMERIGA  VESPUCCI. 


IMPROMPTU. 

IN  COMPLIMENT  To  THE  EXQUISITE  SINGING  OF  MRS. 
ALLSOP. 

A  MONTH  in  summer  we  rejoice 

To  hear  the  nightingale's  sweet  song  j 
But  thou — a  more  enchanting  voice — 

Shalt  dwell  with  us  the  live  year  long. 
Angel  of  Song  !  still  with  us  stay  ! 

Nor,  when  succeeding  years  have  shone, 
Let  us  thy  mansion  pass  and  say, 

Tlie  voice  of  melody  is  gone  ! 


TO  THE  COUNTESS  AMERIGA  VESPUCCI. 

• 

DESCENDANT  of  the  chief  who  stamped  his  name 

On  earth's  Hesperian  hemisphere — I  greet 

Not  only  thy  hereditary  fame, 

But  beauty,  wit,  and  spirit,  bold  and  sweet, 

That  captivates  alike,  where'er  thou  art. 

The  British  and  the  Transatlantic  heart ! 

Ameriga  Vespucci !  thou  art  fair 

As  classic  Venus ;   but  the  Poets  gave 

Her  not  thy  noble,  more  than  classic,  air 

Of  courage.     Homer's  Venus  was  not  brave — 

She  shrieked  and  fled  the  fight.    You  never  fled, 

But  in  the  cause  of  Freedom  fought  and  bled. 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  PETRARCH.          317 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  PETRARCH. 

PROEMIO. 

Voi,  ch?  ascoltate  in  rime  sparse  il  suono. 

YE  who  shall  hear  amidst  my  scattered  lays 
The  sighs  with  which  I  fanned  and  fed  my  heart, 
When,  young  and  glowing,  I  was  but  in  part 
The  man  I  am  become  in  later  days, — 
Ye  who  have  marked  the  changes  of  my  style 
From  vain  despondency  to  hope  as  vain, 
From  him  among  you  who  has  felt  love's  pain 
I  hope  for  pardon,  ay,  and  Pity's  smile. 
Though  conscious,  now,  my  passion  was  a  theme 
Long  idly  dwelt  on  by  the  public  tongue, 
I  blush  for  all  the  vanities  I  've  sung, 
And  find  the  world's  applause  a  fleeting  dream. 

SONXET    XXIII. 
Quest"1  anima  gentil  che  si  diparte. 

THIS  lovely  spirit,  if  ordained  to  leave 

Its  mortal  tenement  before  its  time, 

Heaven's  fairest  habitation  shall  receive, 

And  welcome  her  to  breathe  its  sweetest  clime. 

If  she  establish  her  abode  between 

Mars  and  the  planet-star  of  Beauty's  queen, 

The  sun  will  be  obscured,  BO  dense  a  cloud 

Of  spirits  from  adjacent  stars  will  crowd 

To  gaze  upon  her  beauty  infinite. 

Say  that  she  fixes  on  a  lower  sphere, 

Beneath  the  glorious  Sun,  her  beauty  soon 

Will  dim  the  splendor  of  inferior  stars — 

Of  Mars,  of  Venus,  Mercury,  and  the  Moon. 

She  '11  choose  not  Mars,  but  higher  place  than  Mars 

She  will  eclipse  all  planetary  light, 

And  Jupiter  himself  will  seem  less  bright. 


313  TRANSLATIONS  FROM  PETRARCH. 

SONNET   LX. 

lo  nonfu  d'amar  voi  lassato  unquanco. 
TIRED,  did  you  say,  of  loving  you  ?     O,  no  t 
I  ne'er  shall  tire  of  the  unwearying  flame. 
Bat  I  am  weary,  kind  and  cruel  dame, 
With  tears  that  uselessly  and  ceaseless  flow, 
Scorning  myself,  and  scorned  by  you.     I  long 
For  'death  j  but  let  no  gravestone  hold  in  view 
Our  names  conjoined ;  nor  tell  my  passion  strong 
Upon  the  dust  that  glowed  through  life  for  you. 
And  yet  this  heart  of  amorous  faith  demands, 
Deserves,  a  better  boon ;  but  cruel,  hard 
As  is  my  fortune,  I  will  bless  Love's  bands 
Forever,  if  you  give  me  this  reward. 

SONNET   LXVIII. 
Erano  i  capei  d'oro  air  aura  sparsi. 
TIME  was  her  tresses  by  the  breathing  air 
Were  wreathed  to  many  a  \inglet  golden  bright, 
Time  was  her  eyes  diffused  unmeasured  light, 
Though  now  their  lovely  beams  are  waxing  rare. 
Her  face  methought  that  in  its  blushes  showed 
Compassion,  her  angelic  shape  and  walk, 
Her  voice  that  seemed  with  Heaven's  own  speech  to 

talk,— 

At  these,  what  wonder  that  my  bosom  glowed ! 
A  living  sun  she  seemed — a  spirit  of  Heaven. 
Those  charms  decline :  but  does  my  passion  ?     No ! 
I  love  not  less — the  slackening  of  the  bow 
Assuages  not  the  wound  its  shaft  has  given. 

SONNET   CXXV. 

In  qual  parte  del  CieT,  in  quale  idea. 
IN  what  ideal  world  or  part  of  heaven 
Did  Nature  find  the  model  of  that  face 
And  form,  so  fraught  with  loveliness  and  grace, 
In  which,  to  our  creation,  she  has  given 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  PETRARCH.  319 

Her  prime  proof  of  creative  power  above  ? 

What  fountain  nymph  or  goddess  ever  let 

Such  lovely  tresses  float  of  gold  refined 

Upon  the  breeze,  or  in  a  single  mind 

Where  have  so  many  virtues  ever  met — 

E'en  though  those  charms  have  slain  my  bosom': 

weal  1 

He  knows  not  love  who  has 'not  seen  her  eyes 
Turn  when  she  sweetly  speaks,  or  smiles,  or  sighs, 
Or  how  the  power  of  love  can  hurt  or  heal. 

SONNET   CCXX. 
Cercato  ho  sempre  sotitaria  vita. 

IN  solitudes  I  've  ever  loved  to  abide, 

By  woods  and  streams,  and  shunned  the  evil-hearted, 

Who  from  the  path  of  heaven  are  foully  parted. 

Sweet  Tuscany  has  been  to  me  denied, 

Whose  sunny  realms  I  would  have  gladly  haunted, 

Yet  still  the  Sorgue  his  beauteous  hills  among 

Has  lent  auxiliar  murmurs  to  my  song, 

And  echoed  to  the  plaints  rny  love  has  chanted. 

Here  triumphed  too  the  poet's  hand  that  wrote 

These  lines — the  power  of  love  has  witnessed  this. 

Delicious  victory  !  I  know  my  bliss, 

She  knows  it  too — the  saint  on  whom  I  dote. 


320  EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  MOBIADE. 

EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  MOBIADE* 

AX   EPIC   POEM,   IN   THREE   BOOKS. 

ARGUMENT. — Invocation  to  the  P)issardes — Description  of  the 
influence  of  scarcity  on  New-Year's  Day,  1801 — Bold  interfer- 
ence of  the  Ibissardfs  in  public  affairs — First  assembly  and 
march  of  the  insurgents — Their  progress  to  the  neighborhood 
of  Bridewell — Speech  of  the  prisoners  to  the  insurgents — De- 
scription of  the  Calton  Hill  beside  Bridewell — From  thence  the 
Poet  makes  a  familiar  transition  to  his  old  lodgings  on  the  High- 
Terrace,  opposite  these  scenes — He  describes  his  visionary  mus- 
ings at  his  window  that  overlooked  them — His  subsequent 
orders  for  dinner,  delivered  in  Iambics — He  returns  to  the 
proper  subject  of  his  Poem — Compliments  Count  Rumford — 
and  concludes  Book  the  First. 

****** 

STAY  your  rude   steps,  whose  hands  have  never 

thrown 

Th'  avenging  flight  of  turnip  or  of  stone  j 
Whose  tiny  hearts  with  no  delirium  throb, 
"VVheu  Heaven's  dread  justice  arms  the  mighty  mob ! 
But  come,  ye  vocal  nymphs,  whose  roseate  feet 
Print,  with  unslippered  steps,  the  miry  street} 
Whose  serenades  at  morning-tide  begin, 
From  lips  bedewed  with  aromatic  gin  ! 
Nymphs!    your   bold   hands,  in  dearth's  alarming 

hour, 

Swing  the  huge  jorden,  hurl  the  flinty  shower  j 
Drag  the  scared  miser  from  his  hoarded  crops. 
And  storm  the  hucksters  in  their  barred  shops ; 
Deal  the  brown   loaves,  sweet  grain,   and   mealy 

roots,t 
And  pelt  proud  provosts  in  their  gala  suits ! 

*  In  1^01,  owing  to  the  clearness  of  provisions,  riots  took 
place  in  Edinburgh,  which  it  required  military  interference  to 
suppress.  These  riots  were  called  "meal  mobs."  and  were  gen- 
erally composed  of  fish-women — "the  Poi.iKO.rdes  of  New  Haven 
and  Mnsselburgh  "—against  whom  the  magistrates  found  it  very 
•difficult  to  act. 

t  Barley-loaves  and  potatoes. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  MOBIADE.  32  L 

Thus,  when  Monopoly's  briarean  hands 
Had  dragged  her  harrow  o'er  a  hundred  lands  ; 
But  chief,  the  terrors  of  her  gorgon  frown 
Had  scared  Edina's  faint  and  famished  town ; 
Then  Want,  the  griffin,  champed  with  iron  claws, 
Our  shuddering  hearts  and  agonizing  maws  ; 
Chased  from  our  plundered  boards  each  glad  regale 
Of  vermeil  ham,  brown  beef,  and  buxom  ale  ! 
Ah  me !   no  strepent  goose,  at  Christmas-tide, 
Hissed  in   the  strangled  hand,  and  kicked   and 

died! 

No  trembling  jellies,  nor  ambrosial  pie, 
Regaled  the  liquorish  mouth  and  longing  eye. 
Red  sunk  December's  last  dishonored  sun, 
And  the  young  TEAR'S-DAY  passed  without  a  1  >un  ! 

Nymphs!  in  that  hour  with  pattering  steps  ye  ran, 
And  roused  to  nobler  deeds  the  soul  of  man  ; 
Called  the  fierce  tribes,  impatient  of  their  doom, 
From   shadowy   booth,  dark   shop,   and   sounding 

loom  ; 

Lured  the  young  'prentice  with  seductive  art, 
And  trained  to  glory  his  enamoured  heart ! 

Then  sprung  each  patriot  from  his  lowly  den ; 
Even  tailors  would  avenge  the  rights  of  men  ! 
Huzzaing  barbers  swell  the  marching  line, 
Whose  nice  hands  trim  "  the  human  face  divine." 
Sweeps,  in  their  panoply  of  soot  revealed, 
The  glorious  besom  of  destruction  wield ; 
Their  leathern  aprons  Crispian  heroes  stock 
With  tingling  brick,  huge  tiles,  and  massy  rock  ! 


Now  in  divisions  march  the  marshalled  band, 
Troop  follows  troop,  and  blackeois  all  the  land : 
Man  shouts  to  man,  on  thousands  thousands  rush, 
Toes  tramp  on  toes,  and  neighbors  neighbors  crush. 

N* 


32-2  EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  MOBIABE. 

Siliceous  showers  in  dread  collision  blend ; 
High  hurled  in  air  th'  unburied  cats  descend ! 
Bold  hands  in  vain  from  windowed  heights  o'erturn 
Th'  unblessed  waters  of  the  nameless  urn ; 
From  street  to  street  their  dreadful  route  they  steer, 
Rage  in  their  van,  and  rapine  in  their  rear  ? 
*.  *  *  * 

Nymphs !  in  that  hour  ye  spread  your  parted  train 
By  winding  walk,  dark  arch,  and  gloomy  lane  ; 
These  to  the  trembling  South's  remotest  bound, 
And  t ftose  to  Bridewell's  sand-encircled  ground. 
Thrice  by  that  rock — whose  stern  Bastile  appalls 
Heroic  worth,  and  hems  in  marble  walls — 
Indignant  stopt,  the  roaring  cavalcade 
Swung  their  waved  hats,  and  long  and  loud  huzzaed ! 
Thrice  from  the  hollow  vaults,  responsive  rise 
Hoarse  shouts  of  manly  throats,  and  virgin's  sweeter 

cries! 
"Down — down    with   Provosts,  and   their    tyrant 

sway!" 

Each  caged  warbler  said,  or  seemed  to  say — 
"  March  on,  ye  champions  of  the  public  weal ! 
Revenge  or  ruin  !  death —  or  cheaper  meal ! 
Oh,  could  ye  burst  but  those  obdurate  bands 
That  clasp  our  gates,  and  bind  our  brawny  hands ! 
Then,  what  a  host  of  aid  would  rush  to  crown  ! 
Your  glorious  work,  and  rob  the  ravaged  town 
Then  should  no  sceptred  beadle  dare  provoke 
Our  hearts  of  iron,  and  our  clubs  of  oak  ! 
Nor  listed  bayonet,  nor  the  loud  platoon 
Of  '  Volunteer,  town-guard,'  or  '  light  dragoon ' 
Should  screen  the  big-wigged  Justice,  timely  caught 
Even    in   the    noose*    these   toiling    hands   have 

wrought. 

Tyrant  should  balance  tyrant,  dangling  high, 
And  Bridewell's  /temp  avenge  her  slavery  !" 


*  Alluding  to  the  ropes,  etc.,  made  as  task-work  in   the  'Bride- 
well.' 


EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  MOBIADE.  3^3 

So  sung  the  prison-birds ;  but  all  in  vain, 

As  Yorick's  starling  waked  his  plaintive  strain  ! 

No  battering  beam,  loud  axe,  or  sounding  saw, 

Burst  on  the  dragon-guarded  doors  of  law  ! 

For  them  no  friendly  portal  shall  expand, 

Nor  high  deliverer  wave  his  angel  wand  ; 

No  visitant  for  them  the  path  prepares 

Thro'   sentried    gates,   dark   vaults,   and   winding 

stairs; 

Save  when  that  dreadful  foe — who  oft  reveals 
Dismantled  heroes  at  his  chariot  wheels — 
With    red-robed     spearmen,    and     the     sound    of 

drums, 
Nine-tailed  Bashaw,  the  savage  Hangman  conies ! 

*  *  *  * 

But  say,  fair  Heroines  of  my  vent'rous  song ! 
Where  next  your  stormy  thousands  rushed  along  ? 
For  fainter  now  the  groans  of  Bridewell  grew, 
And  more  remote  the  mountain  streamer  flew, 
Whose  airy  length,  expanded  to  the  blast, 
Waves  o'er  the  tall  and  telegraphic  mast ! 
Here  (but  a  mightier  voice  recalls  her  home  !) 
My  desultory  Muse  would  love  to  roam  : 
And  other  charms  than   yours,  sweet  nymphs,   to 

sing, 
Rest  on  the  Calton  height  her  wearied  wing !  .  . 


Fair  salutary  spot!  where  Health  inhales 
Her  freshest  fountains,  and  her  purest  gales ; 
I  love  thy  homely  name's  familiar  sound, 
Thou  green  Parnassus  of  my  native  ground  ! 
Haunt  of  my  youth !  while  yet  the  poet's  head 
Peeped  from  yon  high  and  heaven-aspiring  shed, 
O'erlooking  far  Edina's  gilded  vanes, 
And  all  her  dusky  wilderness  of  lanes. 
What  time,  sublimely  lodged  !  he  mounted  higher 
Than  Attic  station  with  his  Scotian  l3"re; 


324  EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  MOBIADE. 

And,  warm  in  fancy's  castle-building  hour, 

Sung  to  the  shelter  of  his  sky-light  bower.* 

'T  was  then,  sweet  hill !  imagination  drew 

Thy  winding  walk  some  paradise  in  view ; 

Each   white-robed  nymph   that   sailed   thy  terrace 

round, 

Seemed  like  a  goddess  on  Elysian  ground. 
Then  spread  Illusion,  with  her  pencil  warm, 
Unearthly  hues  on  every  meaner  form ; 
Wings  on  the  grazing  horse  appeared  to  grow, 
And  Delphian  woods  to  wave,  and  Helicon  to  flow. 

Nor  ceased  my  day-dream  till  the  waning  hours 
Had  shook  fair  Fancy  from  her  throne  of  flowers ; 
And  o'er  my  heart  emotions,  less  divine, 
Imperious  warned  the  esurient  bard  to  dine : 
Yet — when  my  bell  its  awful  summons  rung, 
And  menial  Mary  heard  its  iron  tongue — 
Not  in  plebeian  prose,  I  spoke  aloud, 
When  mortal  wants  th'  immortal  spirit  bowed : 
111  would  it  suit  to  ask  a  poet's  food 
In  vulgar  phrase,  ignobly  understood  ! 
Then  stood  the  culinary  maiden  dumb, 
And  slowly  twirled  each  circumvolvent  thumb, 
Astounded — listening  to  the  voice  sublime 
Of  oral  thunders,  and  Iambic  rhyme : 

Bring  me  the  beef — the  dulcet  pudding  bring ! 
Or  fry  the  mud-lark'st  odoriferous  wing ; 
Or  simmering  greens,  with  soft  rotation  turn, 
Champed  in  the  luscious  treasure  of  the  chum  ! 
Then  pour  the  brown  ale,  rich  as  ever  ran 
From  Balder's  horn,  or  Odin's  creamy  can  ! 
Blest  in  that  honest  draught,  let  none  repine 
For  nec'trous  noyeau,  or  ambrosial  wine ; 

*  The  Poet's  lodgings  on  the  High-terrace.  Leith  Walk. 
t  Th^  poetical  name  for  a  pig,  principal!}7  used  in  the  elegant 
phraseology  of  Kilmainham  jail. 


MARY'S  RETURN.  3->:> 

But — lest  my  waning  wealth  refuse  to  raise 
80  fair  a  feast,  in  these  degenerate  days — 
Take  from  this  splendid  shilling,  what  may  find 
Some  sweet  reflection  of  a  sober  mind — 
Yon  earth-born  apple,  vegetable  grace 
Of  Erin's  sons — a  blunder-loving  race ; 
Well  could  that  food  of  bulls  delight  me  now, 
Mixt  with  the  mantling  beverage  of  the  cow ; 
My  vaccine  milk,  on  'tatoes  sweet  should  pour, 
And  fruit  and  liquor  charm  one  fairy-footed  hour  ! 

*  *  *  *  * 

Such  were  my  humble  themes  of  other  time, 
Ye  red-armed  heroines  of  my  native  clime ! 
Ere  yet  the  Muse  of  unambitious  days 
Had  ever  sung,  or  hoped  to  sing,  your  praise. 
For  other  nymphs  beguiled  my  busy  brains 
To  love-sick  odes,  and  honey-suckle  strains ; 
What  time,  erratic  o'er  my  nightly  roof, 
Grimalkin-warblers  caterwauled  aloof; 
Or  sportive,  through  the  groves  of  chimneys  sprung, 
And  "all  night  long  their  am'rous  descant  sung." 
Then  lower  themes  for  you,  the  Poet  spurns ; 
Sole  in  his  heart  the  patriot  passion  burns ! 


MARY'S  RETURN. 

WHY  mourns  the  wind,  why  leafless  lies  the  track, 

Why  breaks  no  sun,  or  sings  no  bird  to  cheer 
The  morn,  beloved  friends,  that  welcomes  back 

Your  Mary  to  her  home  of  Sydenham  dear? 
Could  painter's  hand  appropriate  landscape  form, 

Were  she  to  seem  the  Genius  of  the  place ; 
There  would  not,  sure,  be  there  a  shade  or  storm, 

But  all,  herself  resembling,  bloom  and  grace. 


326  EXTEMPORE  VERSES. 

And  yet,  dear  maid,  though  loveliest  scenes  of  earth 
Might  suit  thee;  more,  they  could  not  make  us 

prize 

The  voice — like  music  to  our  wintry  hearth ; 
The  smile — like  summer's  gladness  to  our  eyes. 

November  20,  1807. 


EXTEMPORE  VERSES. 

FROM    A    LETTER   TO   MISS   MAYOTT. 

HARK  !  from  yon  corner  rings  the  supper-bell — 
Adieu !  adieu ! — dear  Fanny,  fare  thee  well ! 
Oppressed  by  hunger,  I  must  walk  up  stall's ; 
Then  go  to  bed,  when  I  have  said  my  prayers. 
But  that  same  rat*  will  still  his  visit  pay — 
So  I  '11  be  forced  to  watch  as  well  as  pray ; 
Yet  watching — sleeping — doomed  to  sup  or  dine, 
However  faring — still,  i'air  friend,  I  'in  thine — 


THE  GLORIES  OF  A  SUMMER  DAY. 

FROM    A    LETTER   TO    MISS    MATOW,    1808. 

In  reverge  for  your  absence,  I  mean  to  debar  you  from  the 
eight  of  a  beautiful  poem,  which  I  have  written  in  blank-verse, 
upon  "  The  Glories  of  a  Summer  Day:" — 

OH,  for  a  muse  of  fire,  to  celebrate 

The  sweltering  glories  of  a  summer's  day ! 

*  To-day  I  must  be  half  dead  with  the  old  bad  sleep,  in  conse- 
quence of  an  impudent  rat  who  laid  his  teeth  like  a  saw  to  the 
wainscot  near  my  bed.  and  kept  grinding  genteelly  till  day-break. 
Duels  have  been  fought  in  saw-pits:  but,  surely,  sleeping  in  a 
saw-pit  is  impossible,  and  so  I  round  it.  All  my  knocks  and 
hisses,  and  rapping,  till  my  knuckles  were  sore,  did  not.  discon- 
cert the  engineer.  I  f xrtect  the  same  felicity  to-night.— Fruin  the 
Letter  containing  the  nbore  verses. 


FRO'M  ANACREON.  IW7 

Now  the  thermometer  of  Fahrenheit — 

Too  far-in-height,  alas  ! — is  seventy-five. 

Red-faced,  and  dripping  transpiratious  dews, 

The  morning  stranger  visits  your  abode, 

And  mutual  plainings  of  the  sultry  weather 

Follow  the  gratulations  of  the  day. 

Now   Beau  hangs  out   his  tongue,  and  drops  his 

jaw— 

(Oh,  that  less  honest  brutes  would  drop  their  jaw  !) 
The  animal  creation  quit  their  sports, 
All  but  the  playful  kitten.     She,  alone, 
Her  tiger-origin  of  climes  adust 
Betraying,  wantons  in  the  solar  blaze,  etc.,  etc. 


FROM  ANACREON. 

AX    IMPROMPTU    TRANSLATION. 

—  To  podov  TO'T&V  Epwrwv — 

THE  rose,  to  love  that  sacred  grows, 

To  Bacchus  let  us  bring, 
And,  crowned  with  garlands  of  the  rose, 

Exulting  quaflj  and  sing, 
And  laugh  away  the  happy  hours — 
The  rose,  the  paragon  of  flowers — 

The  rose,  the  nursling  of  the  spring  ! 

Roses,  the  gods  themselves  enjoy, 
And  Venus's  delightful  Boy, 

His  lovely  ringlets  to  attire, 
With  rosy  wreaths  his  brow  embraces, 
When  he  dances  with  the  Graces. 

Then  crown  me,  aud  I'll  strike  the  lyre,  etc. 

1*09. 


328  LINES. 


LINES,  ON  TELLING  HER  FAULTS  TO 
MISS  F.  W.  MAYOW, 

WHO  HAD  ACCUSED  HIM  OF  NOT  BEING  ABLE  TO  READ 
ANY  WRITING  BUT  HIS  OWN. 

IN  Fanny's  praise  let  others  talk ; 

I  '11  tell  the  blemish  of  her  nature- 
It  is  not  in  her  speech  or  walk, 

Her  conversation  or  her  stature. 

I  like  her  heart ;  7t  is  warm  to  friends ; 

Her  face  I  could  not  wish  to  vary ; 
And,  polished  to  her  finger  ends, 
.  Her  form  has  something  statuary. 

Her  taste — I  'm  vain  enough  to  deem — 
Is  good,  because  with  mine  it  tallies ; 

Her  wit,  I  very  much  esteem — 

Save  when  my  own  dear  self  it  rallies! 

And  yet — I  will  not  while  I  live 

For  all  your  worth  and  virtues  many — 

I  will  not  one  sad  fault  forgive ; 
You  write  illegibly,  my  Fanny ! 

1609. 


HOHENLINDEN.  329 


HOHENUNDEN. 

ON  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 
When  the  drum  beat,  at  dead  of  night., 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
Tho  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  arrayed, 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neighed, 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven, 
Then  rushed  the  steed  to  battle  driven, 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven, 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

'T  is  morn,  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank,  and  fiery  Hun, 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  brave, 
Who  rash  to  glory,  or  the  grave ! 
Wave,  Munich  !  all  thy  banners  wave, 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry ! 


330  -       GLENARA. 

Few,  few,  shall  part  where  many  meet ! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet, 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 

1803. 


GLENARA. 

O  HEARD  ye  yon  pibroch  sound  sad  in  the  gale, 
Where  a  band  cometh   slowly  with   weeping-   and 

wail? 

'T  is  the  chief  of  Glenara  laments  for  his  clear  ; 
And   her   sire,   and   the  people,  are  called  to  her 

bier. 

Glenara  came  first  with  the  mourners  and  shroud ; 
Her    kinsmen    they    followed,    but    mourned    not 

aloud  : 

Their  plaids  all  their  bosoms  were  folded  around ; 
They  marched  all  in  silence, — they  looked  on  the 
ground. 

In  silence  they  reached  over  mountain  and  moor, 
To  a  heath,  where  the  oak-tree  grew  lonely  and 

hoar: 
"Now   here   let   us   place   the   gray  stone   of  her 

cairn: 
Why  speak  ye  no  word  !" — said  Glenara  the  stern. 

"  And  tell  me,  I  charge  you !  ye  clan  of  my  spouse, 
Why  fold    ye   your   mantles,  why  cloud    ye   your 

brows  t" 

So  spake  the  rude  chieftain : — no  answer  is  made, 
But  each  mantle  unfolding,  u  dagger  displayed. 


GLENARA.  331 

"  I  dreamt  of  my  lady,  I  dreamt  of  her  shroud," 
Cried  a  voice  from  the  kinsmen,  all  wrathful  and 

loud: 

"  And  empty  that  shroud  and  that  coffin  did  seem : 
Glenara !  Glenara !  now  read  me  my  dream !" 

0  !  pale  grew  the  cheek  of  that  chieftain,  I  ween, 
When  the  shroud  was  unclosed,  and  no  lady  was 

seen  ; 
When  a  voice  from  the  kinsmen  spoke  louder  in 

scorn, 
T  was  the  youth  who  had  loved  the  fair  Ellen  of 

Lorn: 

"I  dreamt  of  my  lady,  I  dreamt  of  her  grief, 

1  dreamt  that  her  lord  was  a  barbarous  chief : 
On  a  rock  of  the  ocean  fair  Ellen  did  seem  : 
Glenara !  Glenara !  now  read  me  my  dream  !" 

In  dust,  low  the  traitor  has  knelt  to  the  ground, 
And  the  desert  revealed  where  his  lady  was  found ; 
>  From  a  rock  of  the  ocean  that  beauty  is  borne — 
Now  joy  to  the  house  of  fair  Ellen  of  Lorn ! 


332  EXILE  OF  ERIN. 


EXILE  OF  ERIN. 

THERE  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  Exile  of  Erin, 

The  dew  on  his  thin  robe  was  heavy  and  chill ; 
For  his  country  he  sighed,  when  at  twilight  repair* 

ing 

To  wander  alone  by  the  wind-beaten  hill : 

But  the  day-star  attracted  his  eye's  sad  devotion, 

For  it  rose  o'er  his  own  native  isle  of  the  ocean, 

Where  once,  in  the  fire  of  his  youthful  emotion, 

He  sang  the  bold  anthem  of  Erin  go  bragh. 

Sad  is  my  fate !  said  the  heart-broken  stranger; 

The  wild  deer  and  wolf  to  a  covert  can  flee, 
But  I  have  no  refuge  from  famine  and  danger, 

A  home  and  a  country  remain  not  to  me. 
Never  again,  in  the  green  sunny  bowers, 
Where  my  forefathers  lived,  shall  I  spend  the  sweet 

hours, 
Or  cover  my  harp  with  the  wild  woven  flowers, 

And  strike  to  the  numbers  of  Erin  go  bragh  ! 

Erin,  my  country !  though  sad  and  forsaken, 
In  dreams  I  revisit  thy  sea-beaten  shore ; 

But,  alas !  in  a  far  foreign  land  I  awaken, 

And  sigh  for  the  friends  who  can  meet  me  no 
more ! 

Oh  cruel  fate  !  wilt  thou  never  replace  me 

In  a  mansion  of  peace — where  no  perils  can  chase 
me  ? 

Never  again  shall  my  brothers  embrace  me  ! 
They  died  to  defend  me  or  live  to  deplore  ! 


EXILE  OF  ERIN.  333 

"Where  is  my  cabin-door,  fast  by  the  wild  wood  ? 

Sisters  and  sire !   did  \"j  weep  for  its  fall  ? 
Where  is  the  mother  that  looked  on  my  childhood  ; 

And  where  is  the  bosom  friend  dearer  than  all  ? 
Oh!  my  sad  heart!  long  abandoned  by  pleasure, 
Why  did  it  dote  on  a  fast-fading  treasure '? 
Tears,  like  the  rain-drop,  may  fall  without  measure, 

But  rapture  and  beauty  they  cannot  recall. 

Yet  all  its  sad  recollections  suppressing, 
One  dying  wish  my  lone  bosom  can  draw ; 

Erin !  an  exile  bequeathes  thee  his  blessing ! 
Land  of  my  forefathers !    Erin  go  bragh  ! 

Buried  and  cold,  when  my  heart  stills  her  motion, 

Green  be  thy  fields, — sweetest  isle  of  the  ocean  ! 

A.nd  thy  harp-striking  bards  sing  aloud  with  devo- 
tion,— 
Erin  mavournin— Erin  go  bragh  !* 


v  darling,  Ireland  for  ever. 


334  ODE. 


SWITZERLAND. 

WRITTEN    FOB    A    MOTTO    TO    SWITZERLAND  .ILLUS- 
TRATED. 

THE  Switzer's  land  !  where  Glory  is  encamped, 

Impregnably,  in  mountain  tents  of  snow ; 
Realms,   that    by  human   footprint    ne'er   were 

stamped — 
Where  the  eagle  wheels,  and  glacial  rampails 

glow ! 

Seek,  Nature's  worshipper,  those  landscapes !  Go 

Where  all  her  fiercest,  fairest,  charms  are  joined  ! 

Go   to   the   land  where  TELL   drew   Freedom's 

bow ! 

And  in  the  Patriot's  Country  thou  shalt  find 
A  semblance  'twixt  the  scene  and  his  immortal 
mind! — 

1834. 


ODE, 

ON  THE  BIRTH  OF  FIVE  KITTENS  IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  HER 
BRITANNIC  MAJESTY'S  CONSUL-GENERAL  AT  ALGIERS. 

[Tune — "  The  Campbells  are  coming."] 

THE  cat  she  has  kittened,  Ohon !  Ohon  ! 

In  the  Consular  house  of  St.  John,  St.  John  j 

Of  her  five  little  cats 

(They  are  all  blind  as  bats) 
There  are  two  to  be  drowned,  that   are  gone,  are 

gone ! 

But  the  rest 't  were  a  pity  to  drown,  to  drown ; 
Zugasti*  and  Campbell,  and  Brown,  and  Brown,t 

*  The  Chevalier  Zugasti,  Spanish  Consul  at  Algiers, 
•f  Mr.  Brown,  Consul  of  the  United  States,  America. 


MY  NATIVE  LAND.  335 

Are  to  save  all  the  three 
From  this  cat-as  trophce, 
And  to  rear  them  as  cats  of  renown,  renown. 

These  three  pretty  kittens,  so  sleek,  so  sleek, 
There  's   Campbell  to  teach  them  their   (lrccl\ 
their  Greek! 

Brown  will  train  them  to  mew 

"  Yankee  doodle,  doo,  doo!" 
And  Zugasti  in  Spanish  to  speak,  to  speak. 

Five  lives  they  shall  have,  every  one,  one,  one; 
Fame's  domestics  shall  beat  a  rattan,  rattan, 

On  the  Barbary  coast, 

Of  their  beauty  to  boast, 
From  the  shores  of  Bougie  to  Oran,  Oran  ! 

Musicians  then*  cat-gut  shall  bring,  shall  bring, 
And  our  kittens  shall  caper  and  sing,  and  sing. 
To  the  glorious  years 
Of  the  French  in  Algiers, 

And  the  health  oflier  CITIZKX  KING,  king,  king  ! 
*  *  *  *          * 

1835. 


MY  NATIVE  LAND. 

MY  native  land !  my  native  land ! 

Now  near  thy  coast-crags  high  and  hoar, 
I  see  the  surf  that  strikes  the  strand — 

I  hear  its  hoarse  and  restless  roar. 
Before  the  breeze  we  gaily  scud 

With  straining  stay  and  swollen  sail, 
And  while  we  stir  the  foaming  flood, 

All  hail !  mv  native  land,  all  hail ! 


336  THE  FRIARS  OF  DIJON. 

Through  Afric's  sands  the  gold  ore  gleams, 

On  Asia's  shores  the  diamond  shines, 
But  there,  beneath  their  sun's  bright  beams, 

The  black,  a  bondsman,  pants  and  pines. 
Proud  parent  of  the  FAIR  and  FREE, 

O'er  roaring  surf  and  rolling  swell, 
With  happy  heart  I  look  on  thee, 

All  hail !  my  native  land,  all  hail ! 

"What  Briton's  breast  but  deeply  draws 

The  breath  that  sighs  thy  shores  adieu ! 
But  throbs,  as  oft  a  thought  he  throws 

From  far,  on  days  of  37outh  and  you  ? 
You !  whom  my  heart  hath  sighed  to  see, 

When  hope  was  faint  and  health  was  frail, 
How  gladly  now  I  look  on  thee, — 

All  hail !  my  native  land,  all  hail ! 

Bound  on,  bold  bark !  with  powerful  prow, 

Through  whitening  waves  that  round  thee  roar! 
From  port  the  pilot  hails  us  now ; 

Hark !  hark !  I  hear  the  plunging  oar, 
The  anchor  drags  the  clanking  chain ; 

The  seaman  furls  the  flapping  sail, 
Thick  throbs  my  heart — and  yet  again 

All  hail !  my  native  land,  all  hail ! 


THE  FEIARS  OF  DIJON. 

A  TALE. 

WHEX  honest  men  confessed  their  sins, 
And  paid  the  church  genteelly — 

In  Burgundy  two  Capuchins 
Lived  jovially  and  freely. 


THE  FRIARS  OF  DIJOX.  337 

They  marched  about  from  place  to  place, 

With  shrift  and  dispensation ; 
And  mended  broken  consciences 

Soul-tinkers  by  vocation. 

One  friar  was  Father  Boniface, 

And  he  ne'er  knew  disquiet, 
Save  when  condemned  to  saying  grace 

O'er  mortifying  diet. 

The  other  was  lean  Dominick, 

Whose  slender  form,  and  sallow, 
Would  scarce  have  made  a  candlewick 

For  Boniface's  tallow. 

Albeit,  he  tippled  like  a  fish, 

Though  not  the  same  potation  ; 
And  mortal  man  ne'er  cleared  a  disli 

With  nimbler  mastication. 

Those  saints  without  the  sliirts  arrived. 

One  evening  late,  to  pigeon 
A  country  pair  for  alms,  that  lived 

About  a  league  from  Dijon — 

Whose  supper-pot  was  set  to  boil, 

On  fagots  briskly  crackling : 
The  friars  entered,  with  a  smile 

To  Jacquez  and  to  Jacqueline. 

They  bowed,  and  blessed  the  dame,  and  then 

In  pious  terms  besought  her, 
To  give  two  holy-minded  men 

A  meal  of  bread  and  water. 

For  water  and  a  crust  they  crave, 

Those  mouths  that  even  on  Lent  days 

Scarce  knew  the  taste  of  water,  save 
When  watering  for  dainties. 


338  THE  FRIARS  OF  DIJON. 

Quoth  Jacquez,  "  That  were  sorry  cheer 
For  men  fatigued  and  dusty ; 

And  if  ye  supped  on  crusts,  I  fear, 
You  'd  go  to  bed  but  crusty." 

So  forth  he  brought  a  flask  of  rich 

Wine  fit  to  feast  Silenus, 
And  viands,  at  the  sight  of  which 

They  laughed  like  two  hyaenas. 

Alternately,  the  host  and  spouse 
Regaled  each  pardon-ganger, 

Who  told  them  tales  right  marvellous, 
And  lied  as  for  a  wager — 

'Bout  churches  like  balloons  conveyed 

With  aeronautic  martyrs  • 
And  wells  made  warm,  where  holy  maid 

Had  only  dipt  her  garters. 

And  if  their  hearers  gaped,  I  guess, 
With  jaws  three  inch  asunder, 

'T  was  partly  out  of  weariness, 
And  partly  out  of  wonder. 

Then  striking  up  duets,  the  Freres 
Went  on  to  sing  in  matches, 

From  psalms  to  sentimental  airs, 
From  these  to  glees  and  catches. 

At  last,  they  would  have  danced  outright', 
Like  a  baboon  and  a  tame  bear, 

If  Jacquez  had  not  drunk  Good-night, 
And  shown  them  to  their  chamber. 

The  room  was  high,  the  host  was  nigh — 

Had  wife  or  he  suspicion, 
That  monks  would  make  a  raree-show 

Of  chinks  in  the  partition  ? — 


THE  FRIARS  OF  DIJON.  330 

Or  that  two  Confessors  would  come, 

Their  holy  ears  out-reaching 
To  conversations  as  hum-drum 

Almost  as  their  own  preaching J? 

Shame  on  you,  Friars  of  orders  gray, 
That  peeping  knelt,  and  wriggling, 

And  when  you  should  have  gone  to  pray, 
Betook  yourselves  to  giggling ! 

But  every  deed  will  have  its  meed : 

And  hark  !  what  information 
Has  made  the  sinners,  in  a  trice, 

Look  back  with  consternation. 

The  fanner  on  a  hone  prepares 

His  knife,  a  long  and  keen  one ; 
And  talks  of  killing  both  the  Freres, 

The  fat  one,  and  the  lean  one. 

To-morrow  by  the  break  of  day, 

He  orders  too,  salt-petre, 
And  pickling-tubs ;  but,  reader,  stay, 

Our  host  was  no  man-eater. 

The  priests  knew  not  that  country-folk 

Gave  pigs  the  name  of  friars ; 
But  startled,  witless  of  the  joke, 

As  if  they  'd  trod  on  briars. 

Meanwhile,  as  they  perspired  with  dread, 

The  hair  of  either  craven 
Had  stood  erect  upon  his  head, 

But  that  their  heads  were  shaven. 

What,  pickle  and  smoke  us  limb  by  limb ! 

God  curse  him  and  his  lardners  ! 
St.  Peter  will  bedevil  him, 

If  he  salt-petres  Friars. 


540  THE  FRIARS  OI-1 

Yet,  Dominick,  to  die  ! — the  bare 

Idea  shakes  one  oddly ; — 
Yes,  Boniface,  ;t  is  time  we  were 

Beginning  to  be  godly. 

Would  that,  for  absolution's  sake 
Of  all  our  sins  and  cogging,  .. 

We  had  a  whip  to  give  and  take 
A  last  kind  mutual  flogging. 

O  Dominick,  thy  nether  end 

Should  bleed  for  expiation, 
And  thou  shouldst  have,  my  dear  fat  friend, 

A  glorious  flagellation. 

But  having  ne'er  a  switch,  poor  souls, 
They  bowed  like  weeping  willows, 

And  told  the  Saints  long  rigmaroles 
Of  all  their  peccadillos. 

Yet  midst  this  penitential  plight 
A  thought  their  fancies  tickled, 

JT  were  better  brave  the  window's  height 
Than  be  at  morning  pickled. 

And  so  they  girt  themselves  to  leap, 

Both  under  breath  imploring 
A  regiment  of  Saints  to  keep 

Their  host  and  hostess  snoring. 

The  lean  one  lighted  like  a  cat, 
Then  scampered  off  like  Jehu, 

Nor  stopped  to  help  the  man  of  fat, 
Whose  cheek  was  of  a  clay  hue — 

Who  being  by  nature  more  designed 

For  resting  than  for  jumping, 
Fell  heavy  on  his  parts  behind, 

That  broadened  with  the  plumping. 


THE  FRIARS  OF  DIJON.  341 

There  long  beneath  the  window's  scone 

His  bruises  he  sat  pawing, 
Squat  as  the  figure  of  a  bonze 

Upon  a  Chinese  drawing. 

At  length  he  waddled  to  a  sty; 

r|M,  ,  >v'-Sj  you'd  thought  for  game  sake, 
C;  .ie  round  and  nosed  him  lovingly, 

As  if  they  'd  known  their  namesake. 

Meanwhile  the  other  flew  to  town, 

And  with  short  respiration 
Brayed  like  a  donkey  up  and  down 

Ass-ass-ass-assination  ! 

Men  left  their  beds,  and  night-capped  heads 

Popped  out  from  every  casement ; 
The  cats  ran  frightened  on  the  leads; 

Dijon  was  all  amazement. 

41 

Doors  banged,  dogs  bayed,  and  boys  hurrahed, 
Throats  gaped  aghast  in  bare  rows, 

Till  soundest-sleeping  watchmen  woke, 
And  even  at  last  the  mayor  rose — 

Who,  charging  him  before  police, 

Demands  of  Dominick  surly, 
What  earthquake,  fire,  or  breach  of  peace 

Made  all  this  hurly-burly  f 

Ass — quoth  the  priest — ass-assins,  Sir, 

Are  (hence  a  league,  or  nigher) 
About  to  salt,  scrape,  massacre, 

And  barrel  up  a  friar. 

Soon,  at  the  magistrate's  command, 
A  troop  from  the  gens-d'armes  house 

Of  twenty  men  rode  sword  in  hand, 
To  storm  the  bloody  farm's-housc. 


342  THE  FRIARS  OF  DIJON. 

As  they  were  cantering  toward  the  place. 
Comes  Jacquez  to  the  swineyard, 

But  started  when  a  great  round  face 
Cried,  Rascal,  hold  thy  whinyard. 

'T  was  Boniface,  as  mad 's  King  Lear, 
Playing  antics  in  the  piggery  : — 

"  And  what  the  devil  brought  you  l.L-re, 
You  mountain  of  a  friar,  eh  f 

Ah,  once  how  jolly,  now  how  wan, 
And  blubbered  with  the  vapors, 

That  frantic  Capuchin  began 
To  cut  fantastic  capers — 

Crying,  Help,  hollo,  the  bellows  blow, 

The  pot  is  on  to  stew  me ; 
I  am  a  pretty  pig,  but,  no ! 

They  shall  not  barbacuc  me. 

Nor  was  this  raving  fit  a  sham ; 

In  truth,  he  was  hysterical, 
Until  they  brought  him  out  a  dram, 

And  that  wrought  like  a  miracle. 

Just  as  the  horsemen  halted  near, 
Crying,  Murderer,  stop,  ahoy,  oh! 

Jacquez  was  comforting  the  frere 
With  a  good  glass  of  noyeau — 

Who  beckoned  to  them  not  to  kick  up 

A  row ;  but,  waxing  mellow, 
Squeezed  Jacquez'  hand,  and  with  a  hiccup 

Said,  You  're  a  d d  good  fellow. 

Explaining  lost  but  little  breath  j — 

Here  ended  all  the  matter ; 
So  God  save  Queen  Elizabeth, 

And  long  live  Henry  Quatre! 


THE  FRIARS  OF  DIJON.  343 

The  gens-d'armes  at  the  story  broke 

Into  horse-fits  of  laughter, 
And,  as  if  they  had  known  the  joke, 

Their  horses  neighed  thereafter. 

Lean  Dominick,  methinks,  his  chaps 

Yawned  weary,  worn,  and  moody; 
So  may  my  readers,  too,  perhaps. 

And  thus  I  wish  'em  Good-day. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


ON  THE  SEASONS. 

A  FRAGMENT  WRITTEN  AT  THE  AGE  OF  TEN. 

OH,  joyful  Spring,  thy  cheerful  days  prolong, 
(The  feathered  songsters  thus  begin  the  song) 
Lo,  smiling  May  doth  now  return  at  last, 
But  ah !  she  runs,  she  runs  along  too  fast, 
The  sultry  June  arrives,  May's  pleasure  ?s  short, 
Yet  July  yields  some  fruit  for  cool  resort : 
Blest  Autumn  comes,  arrayed  in  golden  grain, 
And  bounteously  rewards  the  lab'ring  swain. 

1788. 


ON  FINISHING   VERSIONS  FROM   THE 
CLASSICS. 

WRITTEN   AT   THE   AGE   OF  TEN. 

Now  farewell  my  books  and  also  my  Versions, 
I  hope  now  I  will  have  some  time  for  diversions. 
The  labor  and  pains  you  have  cost  me  's  not  small, 

But  now  by  good  luck  I  've  got  free  of  you  all. 

t 

When  the  pen  was  not  good  I  blotted  the  paper, 
And  then  my  father  cried,  Tom,  what's  the  matter? 
Consider  but  once  what  items  you  need, 
My^  purse  it  must  suffer  or  you  must  take  heed. 

So  adieu  to  rebukes  and  also  to  Versions, 

I  hope  I  '11  now  have  some  time  for  diversions. 

1788. 


OX  THE  DEATH  OF  A  PARROT. 


OX  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FAVORITE 
PARROT. 


IN  Caledonia  lives  a  youth 

Of  genius  and  of  fame, 
Whose  company  yields  me  delight^ 

Will  Irvine  is  his  name. 


II. 

A  chattering  parrot  he  possessed 

Whose  each  diverting  jest 
For  weary  lessons  cheered  him  up 

And  soothed  his  anxious  breast. 

in. 

Poll's  chattering  lays  and  curious  jokes 
And  rhymes  well  got  by  rote 

Were  sweeter  far  to  him  than  lark's 
Or  Philomela's  note. 

IT. 

When  from  the  grammar  school  he  came 
With  Poll  he  oft  made  sport ; 

The  parrot  mimicked  all  he  said — 
With  fun  the  nights  seemed  short. 

v. 

Short  were  they  then  but  now  they're  long 
Poll 's  dead ;  he 's  left  to  mourn 

And  weep  without  a  comforter 
That  Poll  can  ne'er  return. 


340  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  PA1UIOT. 

VI. 

For  Poll  was  but  an  hourly  joy 

A  gift  soon  to  decay 
Emblem  of  all  our  earthly  bliss . 

That  only  lasts  a  day. 

VII. 

Once  in  December's  gloomy  month 
This  same  youth  did  sit  down 

With  aching  heart  for  to  relate 
Of  Death's  dart  lately  thrown. 

viii. 

That  dart  which  thrown  at  poor  Poll's  heart 

Caused  him  to  weep  and  cry 
"  Oh  may  that  day  of  the  year  be  dark 

On  which  my  Poll  did  die/' 

IX. 

"But  let  me  moralize"  he  said 

"Death  overtakes  us  all 
The  haughtiest  tyrant  ever -lived 

Did  by  his  arrows  fall. 

x. 

"None  can  escape  his  powerful  arm 

Or  shun  the  fatal  blow 
Thus  powerful  kings  as  well  as  Poll 

His  victims  are  laid  low." 

1788. 


FROM  ANACKEON.  347 


FROM  ANACREON. 

TRANSLATED  AT  THE  AGE  OF  TWELVE. 


INT  sooth,  I  'd  with  pleasure  rehearse 

The  Atridae  and  Cadmus's  fame, 

If  my  lute  would  accord  to  my  verse, 

And  sound  aught  but  Venus's  name  ! 

JT  was  in  vain  that  I  changed  each  string, 

To  alter  its  amorous  tone  ; 

And  began  of  Alcides  to  sing, 

But  my  lute  warbled  Venus  alone  ! 

I  therefore  my  strains  must  renew 

And  accord  to  the  lays  of  my  lute  — 

So  ye  heroes,  for  ever  adieu  ! 

Love  alone  is  the  theme  that  can  suit. 


H  yfj  fj,  Atwvo 
The  sable  earth  imbibes  the  rain; 
The  trees  and  shrubs  drink  it  again  j 
The  sea  into  his  spacious  breast, 
Imbibes  the  gales  of  air  compressed  : 
The  sun,  in  his  prodigious  cup, 
Drinks  all  the  seas  and  rivers  up  : 
The  silver  light  the  moon  displays, 
Is  but  a  draught  from  Phoebus'  rays. 
Why  then,  companions,  chide  my  choice 
Who  wish  to  drink,  and  still  rejoice  ! 

Aeyovaiv  ai  yvvaiKe$.  —  Ode  xi. 

Anacreon,  the  ladies  say 
Your  pate  is  bald,  your  beard  is  gray  ! 
Take  you  a  looking-glass  ;  forsooth 
You'll  find  what  they  say  is  truth. 


343  SUMMER. 

But  whether  this  be  true  or  not, 

As  little  do  I  care  as  wot ; 

Bnt  this  I  know — 't  is  best  to  rhyme 

Thus  o'er  my  jokes  while  suits  the  time. 


SUMMER. 

A  STRAIN  sublime,  that  now  my  breast  inspires, 
Ye  nymphs  of  Sicily  !  your  aid  requires. 
The  golden  season  crowned  with  joy  appears  ; 
The  grand  dispeller  of  our  winter  cares  ! 
No  more  the  student,  at  the  glimmering  light, 
Shall  pore  his  senses,  moping  day  and  night; 
For  now  the  tasks  and  exercises  stale, 
'  Shall  cease  the  Muse's  pinions  down  to  nail. 
From  toil  and  college  hardships  free,  no  more 
rrct)  shall  tease  you  —  that  vile  monster  's  o'er  !  «, 


The  iron  age  of  winter,  stern  and  dread, 

At  length  he  has  hid  his  grisly  baneful  head  ; 

The  golden  age  appears  that  Virgil  sung  — 

An  age  that  well  might  claim  his  tuneful  tongue  — 

Unbidden  flowers  with  bloom  spontaneous  grow  ; 

Wide  spreads  the  ivy  for  the  poet's  brow  ; 

The  modest  lily  and  the  full-blown  rose, 

And  grander  tulip,  all  their  sweets  disclose  ; 

The  feathered  choir,  that  tune  the  song  of  love, 

Invite  the  Muse's  fancy  forth  to  rove. 

Now,  now,  ye  bards,  let  every  lyre  be  strung, 

Nor  let  the  flower  its  sweets  disclose,  unsung.  .  . 

'T  is  true  some  poets  that  unguarded  sing, 
The  golden  age  would  fain  ascribe  to  Spring  ; 
For  me,  I  see  not  how  wits  e'er  so  starch 
•Could  prove  the  beauties  of  the  bleak-eyed  March, 


ON  MISS  MARY  CAMPBELL.  349 

Nor  February,  clad  in  horrid  snow, 
Nor  April  when  the  winds  relentless  blow ; 
These  chilly  months,  it  sure  alone  belongs 
To  those  who  sing,  to  frame  unmeaning  songs.  .  .  . 
Oct.  4,  1790. 


ON  MISS  MARY  CAMPBELL. 

BY  many  a  strange  neglect  diverted, 
The  Muse  and  I  had  long  been  parted ; 
At  length  by  chance  we  met  at  last 
At  eve,  when  every  toil  was  past. 

The  Muse,  insinuating  maid, 
Soon  set  me  to  my  ancient  trade — 
Says  she — "  Since  I  my  service  proffer, 
'T  is  hard  that  you  should  spurn  the  offer; 
Believe  me,  tho'  unkind  you  be, 
You  '11  not  find  every  one  like  me."  .  .  .  . 

I  shrunk  to  hear  my  Muse  thus  scold, 
And  sorrow  made  my  heart  grow  cold ; 
At  length  I  trembling  scarce  could  sav — 
"  I  fear  I  shall  not  know  the  way ; 
I  'm  at  a  dreadful  loss,  dear  Maam, 
To  know  how  I  may  find  a  theme  ?" 

"  Lives  there  not  now,  in  Scotia's  land, 
The  fairest  of  the  female  band  ? 
A  maid  adorned  with  every  grace 
E'er  known  among  the  female  race  ! 
Use  all  my  aid— if  that  can  tell 
Her  praise,  and  virtues  that  excel. 
No  fiction  here  you  will  require 
The  swelling  note  of  praise  to  fire ; 


350  THE  PONS  ASINORUM. 

But  ah !  her  virtues  to  rehearse 
Is  sure  unequal  for  thy  verse ; 
Then  cease — but  let  resounding  fame 
Tell  that  Maria  is  the  name !" 

1790. 


THE  PONS  ASINORUM;  OR,  THE  ASSES' 
BRIDGE. 

SONG,   WRITTEN   IN   MR.   J.    MILLER'S   MATHEMAT- 
ICAL  CLASS. 

As  Miller's  Hussars  marched  up  to  the  wars, 
With  their  captain  in  person  before  'em ; 
It  happened  one  day  that  they  met  on  their  way, 
With  the  dangerous  Pons  Asinorum  !* 

Now  see  the  bold  band,  each  a  sword  in  his  hand, 
And  his  Euclid  for  target  before  him ; 
Not  a  soul  of  them  all  could  the  dangers  appall 
Of  the  hazardous  Pons  Asinorum  ! 

While  the  streamers  wide  flew,  and  the  loud  trum- 
pets blew, 

And  the  drum  beat  responsive  before  'em ; 

Then  Miller  their  chief  thus  harangued  them  in 
brief, 

'Bout  the  dangerous  Pons  Asinorum  ! 

tl  My  soldiers,"  said  he,  "  though  dangers  there  be, 
Yet  behave  with  a  proper  decorum ; 
Dismiss  ev'ry  fear,  and  with  boldness  draw  near 
To  the  dangerous  Pons  Asinorum  /" 

Now  it  chanced  in  the  van  stood  a  comical  man, 
Who,  as  Miller  strode  bravely  before  him, 

*  Fifth  Proposition  of  the  First  Book  of  Euclid. 


THE  FIRST  OF  MAY,  1793.  3T.1 

To   his   SOITOW    soon   found   that   his   brains   v;ere 

wheeled  round, 
As  he  marched  to  the  Pans  Asinorum  ! 

O  sorrowful  wight,  how  sad  was  his  plight, 

When  he  looked  at  the  Pons  Asinorum  ! 

Soon  the  flight  took  his  heels,  like  a  drunkard  he 

reels, 
And  his  head  flew  like  thunder  before  him. 

So  rude  was  the  jump,  as  the  mortal  fell  plump, 
That  not  Miller  himself  could  restore  him  ; 
So  his  comrades  were  left,  of  "  Plumbano  "  bereftr. 
O  pitiful  plight  to  deplore  him  ! 

1791. 


THE  FIRST  OF  MAY,  1793* 

PHCEBUS  has  risen  ;  and  many  a  glittering  ray 

Diffuses  splendor  o'er  the  auspicious  day. 

This  is  the  day — sure,  Nature  well  may  smile — 

When  present  glory  crowns  forgotten  toil ; 

When  honor  lifts  aloft  the  happy  few, 

And  laurelled  worth  attracts  the  wondering  view. 

Th'  appointed  hour,  that  warns  to  meet,  is  near; 
A  mixed  assemblage  on  the  Green  appear ; 
Some  in  gay  clubs,  and  some  in  pairs  advance, 
An  hundred  busy  tongues  are  heard  at  once. 
Some,  on  the  long-extended  gravel- walk, 
Joined  friend  to  friend,  in  serious  converse  talk. 
Their  tones  are  different,  one  content  proclaims ; 
And  one,  in  frantic  jealousy,  declaims 
Against  a  rival's  name — U'T  is  quite  absurd : 
He  write  the  theme  ?  he  never  wrote  one  word  ! 

*  In  a  note,  in  the  handwriting  of  the  poet's  sister  Mary,  it  is  re- 
corded that  this  poem  was  written  in  his  twelfth  ye&r— though  not 
Driven  in  until  I7H3. 


352  THE  FIRST  OF  MAY,  1793. 

Sir,  I  assure  you,  't  was  a  tutor  wrote  it ! 
And  lie  to  class — a  shameful  forgery — brought  it." 
Such,  Disappointment,  is  thine  empty  strain ; 
So,  crossed  Ambition,  vents  his  inward  pain  ! 

Meanwhile    the    destined    victor,    through     th 

throng 

Elate  with  conscious  glory,  moves  along : 
Joy  glistens  in  his  eye,  erects  his  mien, 
And  fills  his  bosom  with  th'  approaching  scene. 
He  sees  the  massy  volume,  feels  its  weight, 
And  views  himself  advance — in  visionary  state ! 

From  yonder  spire  is  heard  the  solemn  bell : 
The  distant  crowds  are  summoned  at  the  knell ! 
See,  at  the  narrow  outlet,  where  they  push, 
All,  all  is  tumult ;  to  the  courts  they  rush : 
With  hasty  steps,  I  see  them  seek  the  gate 
Where  countless  swarms  before  the  doors  await : 
Spectators,  here  convened  awhile  to  gaze, 
Glad  for  some  friend  th'  applauding  shout  to  raise, 
And  some,  perhaps,  to  hear  a  brother's  name 
Full  proud  at  heart,  amidst  the  lists  of  fame. 

At  last  the  ctoors  unfold: — fast,  fast  within 
Compacted  numbers  rush  with  bustling  din; 
Kude  the  assault,  and  boist'rous  is  the  fray, 
And  nought  but  trampling  force  secures  a  way. 
Thus,  if  things  mighty  can  compare  with  small, 
Before  the  opening  of  some  battered  wall, 
Thus,  at  the  breach,  in  dread,  defenceless  hour, 
With  rushing  might,  embattled  squadrons  pour. 

Now  up  the  stairs  ascend  the  jarring  crew, 
And  the  long  hall  is  opened  to  the  view : 
There,  on  the  left,  the  pulpit  clad  in  green ; 
And  there,  the  bench  of  dignity  is  seen, 
Where  Wisdom  sits,  with  equitable  sway, 
To  judge  the  important  merits  of  the  day. 

The  doors  are  fastened,  silence  reigns  within, 
Tsow,  memorable  day!  thy  joys  begin. — 
The  reverend  voice  of  power  is  heard  proclaim, 
lu  solemn  tone,  the  votaries  of  fame. 


THE  FIRST  OF  MAY,  1793.  353 

Near  him  the  glittering  silver  medal  lies 
All  bright  to  view — 't  is  Elocution's  prize. 
Three  rival  youths,  by  emulation  fired, 
To  tempt  the  dubious  contest  are  inspired : 
Sec,  in  you  distant  corner,  while  they  stand, 
Hope,  fear,  and  doubt,  by  turns,  their   breast   com- 
mand. 

The  first  steps  forth,  amid  the  silent  gaze, 
Mounts  the  tall  rostrum,  and  his  parts  displays : 
A  second  rival,  and  a  third  ascend  ; 
You  know  not  which  to  praise,  or  which  to  discom- 
mend, 

But  skill,  superior  judgment,  hath  decreed — 
The  anxious  rivals  from  suspense  are  freed  ! 
And  thou,  thrice  happy  youth,  the  victor  found, 
Approach  !  while  plaudits  to  the  roof  resound. 
Approach!  and  to  thy  heart  that  beats  with  pilde, 
Gay,  glittering  honor,  be  the  riband  tied  ! 

Thus  is  the  first  important  conquest  done  ; 
More  youthful  honors  shall  be  soon  begun. 
See  yon  bright  store  of  volumes  in  a  row, 
Where  gold  and  Turkey's  gayest  honors  glow  ! 
The  first,  the  brightest  volume  's  reared  on  high  ; 
Probando,  prince  of  youths,  is  bid  draw  nirh. 
The  youth   draws  nigh,    and,   hailed    with    loud 

applause, 

Receives  the  boon,  and  modestly  withdraws. 
Probando  is  a  youth  well  known  to  fame ; 
Nor  e'er  inglorious  will  you  hear  his  name. 
'T  is  his  the  problem's  deep  abyss  to  sound, 
Nor  e'er  to  leave  the  hidden  truth  unfound  5 
'T  is  his,  the  syllogist's  dark  rule  to  ply, 
And  prove  absurd  the  sophism  e'er  so  sly, 
Or,  if  you  please,  with  deep  mysterious  skill, 
Make  you  talk  nonsense  even  against  your  v,  ill. 
Tonillus,  next,  is  summoned  from  the  throng, 
His  head  light  tosses  as  he  moves  along : 
No  mean  reward  is  his, — but  why  so  vain  1 
What  means  that  strutting  gait  and  crested  mane? 


354  THE  FIRST  OF  MAY,  1793. 

Away  with  all  thy  light  affected  airs, 
For  honor  vanishes  when  pride  appears. 

The  third,  gay  glittering  volume,  high  is  reared: 
Mysterious  Jove !     Pluniband's  name  is  heard : 
With  lazy  steps,  the  loiterer  quits  his  place — 
While  wonder  gazes  in  each  length  of  face — 
Accepts  the  gift,  with  stinted  scrape  and  nod, 
And  slow  returns  with  an  unworthy  load. 
And  does  Plumbano  bear  this  bright  reward, 
Himself  unworthy  ! — Justice  unimpaired  ? 
'T  is  strange  to  tell !  and  yet  it  has  been  so ; 
The  seeming  paradox  attend,  and  know 
Plumbano  is  a  youth,  as  fame  reports, 
The  palm  of  victory  who  seldom  courts ; 
Full  many  a  race  inglorious  has  he  run, 
Passed  for  a  dunce,  but 't  was  to  him  all  one. 
But  though  the  youth  ambition  ne'er  possessed, 
Neglect  and  |corn  could  touch  the  parents'  breast. 
It  grieved  their  pride  to  see  their  favorite  boy 
No  mark  of  honor  with  the  rest  enjoy ; 
They  sought  the  cause  that  kept  his  spirits  low, 
And  fixed  a  glumness  on  his  vacant  brow. 
All,  who  had  skill,  declared  without  a  pause, 
That  nat'ral  dulness  was  the  only  cause  ! 
Can  aught  remove  it  ?     Yes,  a  tutor  's  got ! 
Plumbano's  past  appearance  is  forgot ; 
A  masterpiece  of  skill  each  theme  appears, 
The  tutored  dolt  outstrips  his  best  compeers; 
Merit  is  brought  to  light,  before  unknown, 
Ah  !  merit  truly,  had  it  been  thine  own,  • 
Had  not  another  penned  the  admired  theme, 
Nor  thou,  at  truth's  expense,  procured  thy  fame ! 
7T  is  hard,  indeed,  but  yet  it  must  be  so, 
Well-honored  as  he  is,  the  dunce  may  go. — 
But,  let  me  tell  thee,  vain  deluded  boy, 
Small  is  the  glory  of  thy  glittering  toy ! 
Two  shining  boards  is  all  about  the  book 
.At   which    with    pleasure,    numskull,    thou    canst 
look 


THE  FIRST  OF  MAY,  1793.  355 

Though  wisdom's  ample  stores  its  leaves  contain, 
By  thee,  unrifled,  they  shall  there  remain. 
Go,  dunce!  to  all  the  world  thy  gift  be  shown, 
We  cannot  grudge  thee  what  is  not  thine  O\VH  ! 

Thick  pass  the  honored  victors  of  the  day, 
Ingenio  shrewd,  and  Alaccr  the  gay  : 
Durando  grave,  Acerrimo  the  wit, 
Prof  undo  serious,  with  his  eyebrows  knit. 
Countless  they  pass :  applauded,  each  returns  ; 
While  o'er  his  cheek  the  conscious  pleasure-  burns. 
Meanwhile,  I  see  each  one  a  joy  impart 
To  some  glad  father's,  friend's,  or  brother's  heart ! 
Full  glad  they  view  the  youth's  distinguished  praise, 
And,  midst  applauding  bursts,  in  silence  fondly  gaze. 
A  well  pleased  smile  is  seen  on  every  face, 
Save  where,  afar,  in  yonder  secret  place. 
Foul  Envy,  blasted  at  another's  fame, 
O'er  the  pale  visage  casts  a  sickly  gleam. 
There  sit  a  silent,  solitary  few, 
Destined,  unseen,  another's  fame  to  view ; 
For  whom  no  glittering  boon  is  raised  on  high, 
Nor  shouts  of  praise,  nor  dusty  volumes  fly  ! 
Hard  lot,  while  knitted  brows  and  bitten  nails 
Disclose  the  envy  which  the  wretch  inhales. 

Here  end  the  honors  that  to  worth  are  due : 
The  pleased  spectator  takes  his  last  adieu ! 
The  youth  are  left  alone : — let  all  attend 
To  what  sage  wisdom  now  may  recommend,* 
And  hear  the  advice  that  fain  would  profit  all, 
The  good  encourage,  and  the  bad  recall. 
Long  may  these  precepts  warn  the  youthful  heart, 
And  long,  through  life,  their  influence  impart ! 
Now,  go !  ye  prosp'rous,  be  not  too  elate, 
And  let  contentment  soothe  the  adverse  fate ! 

*  The  Exhortation  annually  given  by  the  Principal. 


356  ESSAY  ON  THE  ORIGIN  OF  EVIL. 

ESSAY  ON  THE  ORIGIN   OF  EVIL. 

PART  I. — EVILS  ARISING  FROM  IMPERFECTION. 

GIVEN    IX    AS  AN    EXERCISE  IN  THE    MORAL    PHILOSOPHY 
CLA8S,   GLASGOW,   APRIL  25,    1794. 

"WHILE  Nature's  gifts  appear  a  jarring  strife, 

And  Evil  balances  the  Good  of  life ; 

"While  varied  scenes,  in  Man's  estate,  disclose 

Delusive  Pleasure,  mixed  with  surer  woes: 

Bewildered  Reason,  in  the  dubious  maze 

Of  human  lot,  a  feeble  wand'rer  strays, 

Sees  destined  ills  on  Virtue  vent  their  force, 

Dash  all  her  bliss,  and  wonders  whence  the  source. 

Sure  Heaven  is  good,  no  further  proof  we  need, 
In  Nature's  page  the  doubtless  text  we  read. 
Lo !  at  thy  feet  earth's  verdant  carpet  spread, 
Heaven's  azure  vault  o'ercanopies  thy  head ; 
For  thee  the  varied  seasons  grace  the  ]  -lain, 
The  venial  floweret,  and  the  golden  grain  ; 
Fur  thee  all-wise  Beneficence  on  high 
Bade  Day's  bright  monarch  lighten  in  the  sky, 
And  Night's  pale  chariot,  o'er  the  vault  of  blue, 
With  silver  wheels  the  silent  path  pursue. 

Yes,  Heaven  is  good,  the  source  of  ample  bliss ; 
In  spite  of  ills,  creation  teaches  this. 
The  simple,  yet  important  truth  to  spy, 
AYe  need  no  Plato's  soul,  no  sage's  eye ; 
A  native  faith  each  distant  clime  pervades, 
And  sentiment  the  voice  of  reason  aids. 
The  shuddering  tenant  of  the  Arctic  Pole 
Adores  revolving  suns  that  round  him  roll : 
No  sceptic  bosom  doubts  the  hand  of  Heaven; 
And,  though  misplaced,  still  adoration  's  given. 
Search  distant  climates,  at  the  thirsty  line, 
There  still  devotion  thanks  a  power  divine  -, 


ESSAY  ON  THE  ORIGIN  OF  EVIL.  357 

Still,  though  no  Science  treads  on  Libyan  plains, 

The  inborn  gratitude  to  God  remains ; 

And  shall  the  soul,  by  Science  taught  to  view 

Truth  more  refined,  call  inborn  faith  untrue  ? 

No — should  misfortune  cloud  thy  latest  days, 

Still     view   this    truth    through    life's   perplexing 

maze  ; 

While  Nature  teaches,  let  not  doubt  obtrude, 
But  own  with  gratitude  that  God  is  good. 

Yet  whence,  methinks,  repining  mortal  cries, 
If  Heaven  be  good,  can  human  ill  arise  I 
Man's  feeble  race,  what  countless  ills  await, 
Ills  self-created — ills  ordained  by  fate. 
While  yet  warm  youth  the  breast  with  passion  fires, 
Hope  whispers  joy,  and  promised  bliss  inspires, 
In  dazzling  colors  future  life  arrays, 
And  many  a  fond  ideal  scene  displays. 
The  sanguine  zealot  promised  good  pursues. 
Nor  finds  that  wish,  but  still  the  chase  renews  : 
Still  lured  by  Hope,  he  wheels  the  giddy  round, 
And  grasps  a  phantom  never  to  be  found. 
Too  soon  the  partial  bliss  of  youth  is  flown, 
Nor  future  bliss,  nor  Hope  itself  is  known ; 
No  more  ideal  prospects  charm  the  breast, 
Life  stands  in  dread  reality  confessed ; 
A  mingled  scene  of  aggravated  woes, 
Where  Pride  and  Passion  every  curse  disclose ! 

Cease,  erring  man  ;  nor  arrogant  presume 
To  blame  thy  lot  or  Heaven's  unerring  doom. 
HE  who  thy  being  gave,  in  skill  divine, 
Saw  what  was  best,  and  bade  that  best  be  thine, 
But,  count  thy  wants  and  all  thine  evils  name, 
Still,  HE  that  bade  them  be,  is  free  from  blame  ; 
Tell  all  the  imperfections  of  thy  state, 
The  wrongs  of  man  to  man — the  wrongs  of  Fate ; 
Still  Reason's  voice  shall  justify  them  all, 
And  bid  complaint  to  resignation  fall. 

If  HEAVEN  be  blamed,  that  imperfection  's  thine, 
As  just  to  blame  that  man  is  not  divine. 


359  ESSAY  ON  THE  ORIGIN  OF  EVIL. 

Of  all  the  tribes  that  fill  this  earthly  scheme, 
Thy  sphere  is  highest,  and  thy  gifts  supreme  ; 
Of  mental  gifts,  Intelligence  is  given, 
Conscience  is  thine,  to  point  the  will  of  Heaven  ; 
The  spur  of  Action,  Passions  are  assigned, 
And  Fancy,  parent  of  the  soul  refined. 

;T  is  true,  thy  Reason's  progress  is  but  slow, 
And  Passion,  if  misguided,  tends  to  wo  ; 
7T  is  true,  thy  gifts  are  finite  in  extent, 
What  then  ?    can  nought  that 's  finite  give  content? 
Leave,   then,  proud   Man !    this   scene   of  earthly 

chance ; 
Aspire  to  spheres  supreme,  and  be  a  god  at  once  1 

"  No,"  you  reply  ;  "  superior  powers  I  claim, 
Though  not  perfection,  or  a  sphere  supreme ; 
In  Reason  more  exalted,  let  me  shine ; 
The  lion's  strength,  the  fox's  art  be  mine ; 
The  bull's  firm  chest,  the  steed's  superior  grace, 
The  stag's  transcendant  swiftness  in  the  chase. 
Say,  why  were  these  denied,  if  Heaven  be  kind, 
And  full  content  to  human  lot  assigned  ?" — 

The  reason  's  simple ;  in  the  breast  of  man 
To  soar  still  upward  dwells  th'  eternal  plan ; 
A  wish  innate,  and  kindly  placed  by  Heaven, 
That  man  may  rise,  through  means  already  given. 
Aspiring  thus,  to  mend  the  ills  of  fate> 
To  find  new  bliss  and  cure  th  >  human  state, 
In  varied  souls  its  varied  shapes  appear — 
Here,  fans  desire  of  wealth— of  honor,  there  ; 
Here,  urges  Newton  Nature  to  explore, 
And  promises  delight  by  knowing  more: 
And  there,  in  Caesar,  lightens  up  the  flame 
To  mount  the  pinnacle  of  human  fame. 

In  spite  of  Fate,  it  fires  the  active  mind, 
Keeps  man  alive,  and  serves  the  use  assigned ; 
Without  it,  none  would  urge;  a  favorite  bent, 
And  man  were  useless  but  for  Discontent. 

Seek  not  perfection,  then,  of  higher  kind, 
Since  man  is  perfect  in  the  state  assigned  ; 


ESSAY  OX  THE  ORIGIN  OF  EVIL.  359 

Nor  perfect,  as  probation  can  allow, 
Accuse  thy  lot,  although  imperfect  now. 

PART   II. — *MORAL    EVILS. 

But,  grant  that  Man  is  justly  frail  below, 

Still  Imperfection  is  not  all  our  wo : 

If  final  good  be  God's  eternal  plan, 

Why  is  the  power  of  ill  bestowed  on  man  ? — 

Why  is  Revenge  an  inboni  passion  found  ? 

And  why  the  means  to  spread  that  passion  round  ? 

Whence  in  Man's  breast,  the  constant  wish  we  find, 

That  tends  to  work  the  ruin  of  his  kind  ? 

Whence  flows  the  ambition  of  a  Caesar'*  soul, 

Or  Sylla's  wish  to  ravage  and  control  I 

Whence,  monster  Vice  !    originates  thy  course  ? 

Art  thou  from  God  I — is  purity  thy  source  ? 

No  ;  let  not  blasphemy  that  cause  pursue  ! 
A  simpler  source  in  Man  himself  we  view : 
If  Man,  endowed  with  freedom,  basely  act, 
Can  such  from  blameless  purity  detract  ? 
An  ample  liberty  of  choice  is  given, 
Man  chooses  ill — and  where  the  fault  of  Heaven  ? 
Say  not  the  human  heart  is  prone  to  sin, 
Virtue,  by  Nature,  reigns  as  strong  within  : 
The  passions,  if  perverted,  tend  to  wo. — 
"  What  then  I  did  God  perversion,  too,  bestow  P 
No  •;  blame  thyself  if  Guilt  distract  thy  lot ; 
Man  may  be  virtuous — Heaven  forbids  it  not. 
Blind  as  thou  art,  in  this  imperfect  state, 
Still  conscious  Virtue  might  support  thy  fate ; 
Give  Reason  strength,  thy  passions  to  control — 
Vice  is  not  inborn ;  drive  it  from  thy  soul  ! 

Yet  you  reply, — "  Though  ample  freedom  's  mine, 
The  fault  of  Evil  still  is  half  divine ; 
If  Heaven  foresaw  that,  from  the  scope  of  choice, 
Perversion,  vice,  and  misery  should  rise ; 
Why  then  on  Man,  if  prone  to  good,  bestow 
The  possibility  of  working  wo  !" 


360  ESSAY  ON  THE  ORIGIN  OF  EVIL. 

Ask  not ;  't  is  answered :  arrogantly  blind 
To  scan  the  secrets  of  the  eternal  Mind ! 
If  Heaven  be  just,  then  Reason  tells  us  this— • 
That  Man,  by  merit,  must  secure  his  bliss. 
Cease,  then,  with  Evil  to  upbraid  the  &kies; 
That,  to  the  vice  of  mortals,  owes  its  rise ; 
Is  GOD  to  blame,  if  Man's  inhuman  heart 
Deny  the  boon  that  Pity  should  impart  I 
If  patriots  to  brutality  should  change, 
And  grasp  the  lawless  dagger  of  Revenge — 
If  frantic  murderers  mingle  from  afar, 
To  palliate  carnage  by  the  name  of  war — 
If  pampered  Pride  disdain  a  sufferer's  fate, 
And  spuni  imploring  misery  from  her  gate  ? 
No !    Heaven  hath  placed  Compassion  in  the  breast 
The  means  are  given — and  ours  is  all  the  rest. 

But  what,  to  ease  thy  sorrow,  shall  avail 
For  human  lot  the  misanthropic  wail  ? 
Since  all  complain,  and  all  are  vicious,  too, 
Each  hates  the  vile  pursuit,  but  all  pursue, 
Let  actions,  then,  and  not  complaints  prevail ; — 
Let  each  his  part  withdraw,  the  whole  shall  fail. 

PART  III. XATUKAL  EVILS. 

Yet,  grant  that  Error  must  result  from  choice, 
Still  man  has  ills  besides  the  ills  of  vice ; 
Griefs  unforeseen  ;  Disease's  pallid  train  ; 
And  Death,  sad  refuge  from  a  world  of  pah: ! 
Disastrous  ills  each  element  attend, 
And  certain  woes  with  every  blessing  bleml ! 

Lo !  where  the  stream  in  quivering  silver  plays. 
There,  slippery  Fate  upon  its  verge  betrays ; 
Yon  sun,  that  feebly  gilds  the  western  sky, 
In  warmer  climes  bids  arid  nature  die. 
Disgusted  Virtue  quits  her  injured  reign. 
Vice  comes  apace,  and  Folly  leads  her  train  J 
But  not  alone,  if  blissful  all  thy  lot, 
Were  Vice  pursued,  and  Gratitude  forgot. 


ESSAY  ON  THE  ORIGIN  OF  EVIL.  361 

Defects  still  further  in  the  scheme  we  view, 

Since  Virtue,  willing,  scarce  could  man  pursue. 

Hay,  if  each  mortal  were  completely  blest, 

Where  could  the  power  of  aiding  wo  exist? 

If,  at  the  gate,  no  suppliant  sufferer  stand, 

Could  e'er  Compassion  stretch  her  liberal  hand? 

Did  never  winter  chill  the  freezing  waste, 

Could  kindness  e'er  invite  the  shuddering  guest? 

AVhat  boots — if  good  the  changeless  lot  of  man — 

Thq«hilanthropic  wish,  the  patriot's  plan  ? 

Or  wiiat  could  goodness  do?  Nought  else,  7t  is  plain, 

But  rage  to  bridle,  passion  to  restrain  ; 

A  virtue  negative,  scarce  worth  the  name, — 

Far  from  the  due  reward  that  generous  actions  claim. 

Still  less  the  scope  of  Fortitude  we  find, 
Were  pain  dismissed,  and  Fortune  ever  kind. 
The  path  of  merit,  then,  let  ills  be  viewed, 
And  own  their  power,  if  virtue  be  thy  good. 
Nor  on  that  scheme  let  lawless  wishes  run, 
Where  vice  had  all  her  scope,  and  virtue  none  5 
But  rest  contented  with  thy  Maker's  plan, 
Who  ills  ordained,  the  means  of  good  to  man. 
Nor,  midst  complaint  of  hardships,  be  forgot 
The  mingled  pleasures  of  thy  varied  lot ! 

AVhat,  though  the  transient  gusts  of  sorrow  come-* 
Though  passion  vex,  or  penury  benumb ; 
Still  bliss,  sufficient  to  thy  hope,  is  given 
To  warm  thy  heart  with  gratitude  to  Heaven ! 
Still  mortal  Reason  darts  sufficient  day 
To  guide  thy  steps,  through  life's  perplexing  way ; 
Still  Conscience  tells — 't  is  all  we  need  to  know — 
'•  Virtue  to  seek,  and  vice  to  shun  below." 
Hear,  then,  the, warnings  of  her  solemn  voice, 
And  seek  the  plaudit  of  a  virtuous  choice ! 

1794. 


ODE  TO  MUSIC. 


ODE  TO  MUSIC. 

ALL-POWERFUL  charmer  ef  the  soul, 

Each  mood  of  fancy  formed  to  pi  ease j 
To  bid  the  wave  of  Passion  roll, 

Or  tune  the  languid  breast  to  ease. 
Come,  in  thy  native  garb  arrayed, 

And  pour  the  sweetly  simple  song : 
And  all  the  Muse's  breast  pervade, 

And  guide  the  fluent  verse  along. 
What  time  the  moon,  with  silver  beam, 

Shall  sparkle  on  the  light-blue  lake ; 
And  Hope  with  sympathetic  gleam, 

And  silent  pleasure,  shall  awake  : 
Then,  aa  thy  quivering  notes  resound 

From  lively  pipe  and  mellow  horn  j 
And  quick-paced  marches  breathe  around, 

Shrill  thro'  the  ringing  valleys  borne — 
Then,  swelled  with  every  winding  tone, 

Tumultuous  shall  my  heart  rebound  ; 
And  ardor  o'er  my  bosom  thrown, 

Shall  kindle  at  the  rising  bound. 
Or,  oft  at  evening's  closing  hour, 

When  doeper  puqjle  (lyes  the  cloud  ; 
When  Fancy  haunts  »he  silent  bower, 

And  pensive  thoughts  the  bosom  crowd. 
What  time  the  softening  zephyr  flies, 

Thy  notes  shall  aid  the  gentle  theme 
That  lonely  Meditation  tries, 

And,  grateful,  soothe  her  placid  dream. 
Far  from  the  world's  assiduous  throng, 

Then  let  the  mellow  warbling  flute, 
In  slow,  sad  numbers,  pour  the  song, 


ODE  TO  MUSIC.  363 

The  best  this  solemn  hour  may  suit. 
And  thou,  O  Thomson,*  skilled  to  'wake 

The  wild  notes  Scotia  loves  so  dear ; 
Oft  let  me  these  with  thee  partake. 

And  oft  thy  silver  cadence  hear ! 

1794. 

*  One  of  'JaiapOeU's  classmates. 


THE  END. 


A     000  666  367     8 


